A Pile Of Tuesdays
This stone is a memory
and memories are not truth.
I carry these stones in a box,
dripping nostalgia all over my shoes.*
The box fills faster than I can make room,
old rocks settle down below.
Some get stuck between my toes,
as I limp toward another show.
It's already Tuesday again.
I've got a pile of Tuesdays stashed away,
wearing themselves down to sand,
rattling the box with every shake.
Running my finger along the edges
for the last time—I'll know,
I'll divine them across the floor
and see what remains.
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