prose

Rain on the porch…

Looking back into my memories

and seeing these events, once again,

I (for the first time)

feel like an interloper.

These are my memories,

but, that’s not significant.

This was a young man,

firm in his prime,

and my presence

soils

his sanctum.

He says,

“Get sleepy, old man…

your slumber is the only place

where dreams are negotiable.”

A plague on fire, a max exodus from sanity

What happened to what was?

I’m going to sound like

an aging whiner

who cannot handle change,

(I can, it’s worth noting)

but not

as swiftly

as this.

I want to wrap myself

around some bit of our flotsam,

some gesture of “the before”,

and wait with worried pause

that the right lifeboat comes along…

otherwise I’m floundering,

drowning under the weight,

of words without purpose.