One and Done
I know I've been to Chicago,
But I only remember the snow.
I know that I've been to Albuquerque,
but I mostly just remember the hot marketplace
with dried chilies twice the length of my face.
I know that I've been to New Orleans,
but the stacked-house jazz-music French Quarter
and cold, sinking graveyards
and binging on three different types of shrimp and grits,
all silky smooth and perfect are all I can recall.
I know that I've been to Ashville,
but I can only remember drinking a chai milkshake
inside of a red double-decker bus.
I know that I've been to Montana,
but the sight of the grey-blue grass rolling
and a kite rising in the sharp wind
and purple mountains through the windows are all I can remember.
I know that I've been to D.C.,
but cherry blossom trees
and the white, too-intense eyes of 16th President of the United States
and the long illustrious halls of the Smithsonian are all that I remember.
I know that I've been to Nashville,
but all I remember is the thick pillars of the Parthenon
and the grassy slope that led to them
and the antique-glowing insides of a shop.
I know that I've been to California,
but all I can remember is the heavy heat
and riding high inside of a Dumbo at Disney Land.
I know that I've been to Myrtle Beach,
but itchy sand between my toes
and disappointment over forgetting a bathing suit are all I remember.
I know I've been to Greenville,
but all I remember is an archway
a pink glass sculpture in a park
and the perfect golden coins
and great tongues of orange-red flame
that swept across the turning of the leaves.
I know I've been to Port St. Joe,
but long beaches
and avocado socks
and chasing crabs across the beach at ten o'clock at night
and sandy marshmallows are all I can remember.
I know I've been to Montréal,
but floppy heavenly crepes for breakfast
and rivets of syrup flowing down
and the people on the streets
and a doorway with a man and his cardboard drawing of the city
and lingering beside him before running off are all I remember.
By car, by plane, by bus, by train.
Journeys that follow between footsteps.
Hotel rooms and a new bed for a week.
Been there once, then never again.
New, but blurring together now.
In the past, a memory.
Places are one, and then we're done.
Copyright © Ryn Dove | Year Posted 2017
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