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It’s                                                                                                                    a snapshot paid for by a summer                                                          traded Polaroid memories                                                                      just between friends                                                                                  is the secret                                                                                               a hard natural shape, taken                                                                         in memorial from the grave sight                                                                in the eyes of a man                                                                                 not yet at home                                                                                          his to be skipped                                                                                      across the threshold

From

new ideas trapped in paper and pen                                                     always carried, carries                                                                               a life                                                                                                       run by music, the tones                                                                         various scales purchased                                                                        and flung out of the best                                                                            to be played                                                                                            by a mother lie at the Super K                                                               empathy and trust destroyed                                                                      a pile of broken age in witness                                                                  to a life lived and remembered by                                                               a stuffed inanimate filled with love                                                        needed so badly it was                                                                            torn in half                                                                                                  he could have been                                                                               before textbooks were wielded                                                      wrapped in leather                                                                              swung by a right                                                                                      jolly good time was had                                                                         with everything taken, stolen                                                                    rented wheels and permanent possession                                               except the purpose of it                                               

All

found in a drawer                                                                                   buried by years of growing                                                                      the angel of long hours, confined                                                          thinking of how it was to be free                                                               The experience, and the wrapper                                                               not holding much of anything                                                               anymore                                                                                               except all the love ever seen                                                                      by her world.

Of us.

 

 

Poetry