A poem for Thursday

I need to believe there is a place in the world like Bolinas. Not Bolinas the actual place, though it's probably quite lovely. Bolinas the place of Aram Saroyan's book. It has somehow come to represent my ideal town and this week I've been retreating to the place in my mind that still believes I'll find it. This sonnet is from that book.

I remember the evenings I played as a boy,
Suffused with this same disappearing sunlight,
As dinner is finished just in time to catch
A half hour or more still left to play—my friend's faces outside
Settled in their own familiarities—I said goodbye
To the family table to keep the last appointments
Of the day—just the way my daughters do
This evening, while my son remains in his high chair,
Breathing and carefully examining some french bread,
Sliced, buttered, and left behind by one of his sisters
The world is almost at a standstill—so quiet only
The spoon on the soup bowl speaks, when a horse in the distance
Neighs and neighs again—and the only thing left
Is the empty, almost different world before dark
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