The Peter Pan Prize

Tar Beach

Rooftop antennae poke holes in the sky;

shingles buckle in July heat,

ripple like sand under bare feet.

A rooftop brigade of sheets flap hello,

slap the horizon,

flicker and flow

to undulating waves

til I part the sea,

lay down my mat, threadbare times three,

crisscross hands beneath my head

look skyward, embrace

my magic carpet bed.