Literary arts

We used to go on journeys. A mile’s walk would end in
green swamps of the bayou, or among its cemeteries’ angels.
Another mile would get our little legs to blue downtown.
Its silver glass, pink granite, gray marble.
The building full of books that they would let us see and touch.
The copper fountains raining copper pennies.
Occasional stages with music, with dancers.
And mazes underground we could explore
alongside well dressed people just like you.
And maybe you were there?