Voices bounce off buildings slated to be razed
punctuating thought bubbles
in the latest episode of your theatrics
about the one that got away
pieced together and understood, yes? . . .
The tape rewound back to the backyard
and the stairs leading to the basement
where words accompanied costumes
in arrays that spun into constellations
of engagement . . . We were young . . .
The age-old drama
with you waving your magic wand
because if they can I can, yes? . . .
when all this and more were dished out
on paper plates with plastic utensils
that the resident hoarder insisted on keeping . . .
his life aclutter . . .
You have since applied for a sabbatical
to study abroad the waywardisms
of the porcelain-skinned . . .
a Proustian moment as indifferent as the runoff
riding a scattering of crumpled-up
brown paper bags . . . the instant Doppler
technology out to lunch . . . crossing a creek
on moss-covered stones, slipping into the current
with words resurrecting the events that shaped
the moments reopening the cold case . . .
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| Tim Walker |