A shadow passing through a courtyard resembles your childhood.
Streetlights in a nearby town go out and refuse to come in.
Empty canvases await your image.
The faint-at-heart carve pumpkins and antelope in your likeness.
Demitasse cups bearing your name surface at garage sales.
The letters of the alphabet await your first paragraph.
Fellow scriveners wrinkled and preoccupied hand out free passes.
Some opt out, occupying themselves with backward glances.
Introductions are waived leaving you smitten with apostrophes.
You realize you've misplaced your yearbook and address book.
Perhaps it's time to query backgammon players and coatchecks,
to fill grocery carts with rubble and breakfast drinks.
Perhaps it's time to try once again to locate your siblings
who have scattered and are subletting, besieged by telemarketers.
A Greyhound rolls in. Words float in over the transom.
You recognize your childhood among the passengers.
