The Memory That Fell Out of My Grandfather's Wallet
and she stares back
through the small window
placed precariously on the hearth
catching my sporadic glimpse.
this morning is different
an interrupted rendezvous,
a young man your arm holds
casting that familiar smile
(One plus one equals two)
these voices remind me through
a Pablo Neruda window sill
exiled by the note found
wants I should know you.
a smile torments my memory
twisting a distant storm
unable to produce rain,
stirs clouds of silt vanished footprints.
you have evaporated now,
your pedestal seated high
next to life’s marble vase;
never aging
always new
hidden behind a false wall
as something haunts me
misplaced like an old shoe
understands the process,
while womb to air
escapes without an imprint
Copyright © Jason Johnson | Year Posted 2009
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