Out of the bowels of the apartment come
the trivia of the past.
Old receipts pushed to the backs of drawers,
faintly accusatory,
records of money and passions spent;
Yellowed paperbacks made unseen
when new ones double-parked on the bookshelves;
Clothes swallowed by omnivorous closets,
CDs in cracked cases tugged into shadows,
gadgets, trinkets, and
other mummified delights
re-emerging dustily into the light
from the tidy rubble of a home.
Not like photos, those records of big things
making up the official, abridged version of a life,
these are the messy memorabilia,
leftovers from small doses of happiness,
each a reminder of
a moment in time when we were lifted
from the rut of days, and
cheered,
solaced,
or moved.
Now all assigned to the “OUT” pile,
to be shed
before the movers come.
No one knows,
where time goes.
The days slip to weeks and months
and male models no longer seem like youthful hunks.
I wonder where will I be
when twenty years from now, I'm ninety three.
In looking back these odd seventy plus years,
is revealed the all in both happiness and tears.
If health remains in check
I'll glad and happily look back.
After all this time, writing both prose and rhyme
I'll relax my bones though crackling and metering time,
Dustily collected in my poetry books
you can read about my decades of gobbledygook.
Clear in those poems you will find me hiding
in my garden spot still writing.
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