The Patchwork That Makes Up Our Lives-

the permanent tattoo, without any meaning other than to start a conversation immediately feeling close to another person, who is of no true relation a mother laying on her back with her baby crawling on her as they both chuckle the man whose coin is rolling heads to tails over his plumber aged knuckle an unmanned canoe left on the lake to eventually become driftwood art the home you wanted to then, but you now wish you never had to depart the sprawled bricks of a chimney, is all that remains of a house in an overgrown woods the fellow skater youths with a hidden identity under their pattered covered hoods untold philosophies that disappear with the people who never had them revealed the tin roof over the garage that constantly leaked because it was never properly sealed that wind storm we each once claimed nearly blew us right over the child searching in the yard for that darn camouflaged four-leaf clover the door that shut by the hand of the open window’s draft that startled both you and I the spot you pointed to, but knew they wouldn’t see the star that just shot over the sky all of these things I know I’ve said, seen, done, read about or wished I was witness to so I hope that you can drift back or ahead to where these fall in your own point of view