Souvenirs
Twins from different mothers,
we both think that we breathe too much
and no one loves rust
better than us.
Trying hard to find
whatever we have lost,
souvenirs of innocence,
pastel dustrags.
Holes in our pockets,
holes in our hearts,
leaking at the seams
with patchwork pride.
Pink and blue memories
of wet cement curbs,
silver spokes
and mud puddle smiles.
Our pain is just a souvenir,
still I wish the ghosts were gone.
We could chase them with a broom
and sweep the roosters from the room
together.
Leave his picture in the rhinestone frame,
wear your heartache like a crown,
add another cloud to your collection.
Then I'll meet you halfway
and we'll dance in the rain
so we won't see each other's tears...
tomorrow's souvenirs.
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