The Peter Pan Prize
Mary O'Keefe Brady
Briarcliff Manor, NY
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.