Restless memories, faded yesterdays --
On my darkened wall a light appears,
grows bright, passes into darkness.
Outside: the sound of ill-tuned engines.
A street lamp shines through my window --
the curtains really should be drawn.
In a hot July we sweltered
under the nearly unbearable weight of words,
polysyllabic, pretentious -- under
a regimen that ordered what seemed
only a half-waking existence.
In those sweaty, dark-baked cells
we bickered. We preened. We posed.
And we glanced, surreptitiously,
each at the others, while outside
bloomed the warm, sweet, magnolias.
The sap of youth ran thick and piquant.
And finally, it ended,
yet never ended.
Cars still go by, outside,
the engines louder, even raucous,
rudely mocking. The hour is late.
The lights, reflected on the walls,
brighten, dim, disappear.
The curtain really should be drawn.