the jagged edges which gashed
his bare feet on the trash trove of shore by his trailer
slashed the folds of his memory as well
he chooses to tell no tales of that
hungry, motherless time--sharp years when he prayed
his dad would be passed out when he got home
and he usually was, there
on the cat **** sofa, splayed out like some beached whale
while he scavenged for food, and old pop bottles
a lifetime now from those foul filled days
he is a continent away, yet living on the shore,
with a fat portfolio and thin wife
who both protect him from "intrusive thoughts,"
though still he hunts for treasures on the sands, not
the nickel returns that bought his daily bread
instead, he seeks more ancient relics, glass
made smooth by the round chisel of time--soft, cool, full of color,
with no recollection of the fire that forged it