Ryn Dove | + Follow Poet |
Free verse | + Fav Poem | Comment | Email | Print |

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

Please Login to post a comment

Craig Cornish Date: 11/25/2017 4:50:00 PM Hmmm, I try to quit you---not really, we try to quit all that we read, yet it is the ones that don't allow us to that make them special----this is, and most of yours are---all are so far, thanks for sharing and love your original presentation. Login to Reply