And Then You Are This Person
Parents pass away slowly after their death;
come back as your face in a mirror.
People’s lives’ are a code
written on the blind side of your skin.
You watch yourself
coming out of a childhood bedroom
stained now with a foreboding dream.
Once, getting lost in a dark theater
knowing, even as a child
that would not be the last time.
Yesterday inside a newborn moment,
you grew up too fast
and almost disappeared.
Today your mind
is a crow silhouette in the sky.
A friend dies in your arms.
You take her on your Suzuki
to the Thai river market,
drop her ghost into the Peng river;
hope that it will eventually
find its way back to Arkansas.
You select smells
that you can paste into your mind.
The aroma of strange friends
and friendly strangers.
fold sensorial moments into origami birds
that are not even close
to working models.
People you have known
are hand shadows on
the same wall of time.
And then you are this person
and all you can do
is watch from a distance
as if you were always a father
to these drifters,
these persons, who once shared
the same storms with you.
Copyright © Eric Ashford | Year Posted 2019
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