Even he had forgotten about it.
The green glass dressed in years of dust..
Some things are better with age.
The color is old motor oil, and the scent
a crushed velvet dress, damp with her sweat and
perfume I can't remember the name of.
Yes, some things are better with age.
The stemmed glass swirls crimson in the tinkling laughter.
Now the magic of twelve years sleep passes my lips.
It is better with age.
Deeper, more mysterious and sage, the way I should be.
Savor every drop of sunlight from this bottle.
We only had the one,
a gift of days gone by,
and memories that fade with age.

She is the ember, glowing amber in the ebony.
The promise of warmth, of home.
The air of her lingers on the pillow.
I want to hold it somehow.
Memory won't be enough.
I need a to stop time’s ever cruel hands,
to find the marrow and hold fast.
These ghosts dwell in my mind,
promising every sorrow.
Merely faceless shadows of childhood fears.
Latchkey kids will forever wear their
shoestring chains of being alone.
She returns with the ruffle of the sheets,
banishes the banshees to some distant land.
It will be days before they can return.
I take in her scent and smile at the knowing of it,
for now I have my Queen to gaze upon
transfixed in eros.
The heart’s fire
keeps the demons away.
She is holy,
mystic without knowing what she is,
only closing her doves eyes again,
only trying to find her dream again.
What do queens dream of
as fools gaze in awestruck wonder?

Run river wild, flow over me with your jade deluge.
Sweep me across your ancient stones, babbling secrets.
Let me join in the course of your life’s blood
Through the Earth’s capillaries.
I am free here.
The icy Arkansas my father knew in Colorado,
you see mountain water is in my blood too.
You envelope me into your emerald caresses,
carry me away like a lover to your oldest oak’s shade.
Your beauty reflects the Maker and
I am enraptured by the sight of you.
Run River Wild,
break my sorrows and weary burdens on your bluffs.
Where the north wind blows strong and your
white caps crash without a siren’s song.
Who can tame you River Wild?
Who can know all your secrets?
You know a few of mine.
Of moonlight whiskey kisses,
and dreams shared with only you and a cold one.
She is like you River Wild, I can’t tame her, and would never try.
Oh but to know her secrets and feel her warmth, reflects
just as when you are most still and mirroring the world
in your green glass.
Run River wild, you will be here long after I am gone,
but you won't be able to share my secrets
with any other lovers
as they sigh unto you their own.
You rush through me still
Calling me to stay with you, to let you carry me on
further from home, away from the real world.
You are my escape if only for an hour.
When the rain falls hard and you rise and rush,
will you have any memory of me?
Run River Wild, someday I will let you take me, and
we will be one.

The floor is piled with tattered,
age washed images.
These faces breathe again after years behind the glass.
I never knew he went there, did that,
met her, and a subdued laughter joins the somber air.

My first memories of you are like these dusty pictures.
I remember my tall, wind blown,
cowboy uncle from Texas.
You had to be a 1980’s cigarette poster in my 4 year old mind, there in my Colorado world all the way from
the home state that I knew nothing of.
We rode a train; you bought me stuffed animals,
your mustache reminded me of
a bristly broom,
and I stared at your
cowboy boots of legend
as you and my father talked
leather and Cadillacs.

I see a little of myself in your faded eyes looking back.
I wonder which of these you look like now.
What are those eyes beholding now?  
We have only
a feeble grasp of time.
I refill my whiskey glass.
I play the slide show again.
I smoke a cigar much to my wife’s dismay.
I cry, I laugh, I remember.

Playing Battleship with you,
When you gave it to me one Christmas, until you were sick of it.
My first real bottle of cologne,
your museum of a house with a real suit of armor,
eating hot salsa to impress you,
petting the dolphins at Sea World,
you teaching me to draw , my high school graduation
my wedding, and I remember…
Not wanting to see you suffer while holding your hand.
You were happy to see me even though it hurt you to talk.

I am not writing you this for closure or maybe I am.
Funny the way we lie to ourselves.
I am writing to remember.
Because I need the words to go with
the pictures,
I need to know where your were,
was it Morocco, Istanbul, Rome,
The Caribbean, Korea,
Germany, San Antonio? What year was this? When did you have a Camaro?
Who was she? Did you really get a date with Doris Day?
You left me with too many questions, so I need the words to remember,
for the sake of memory.

Milk, bread, butter, juice, jelly
cereal..

My life is my grocery list,
seems like it doesn't change much even though the prices do.

Like when I was around eight and unaware of our one bedroom room apartment being meager, but hated the liver and onions
that I was supposed to be "thankful for".
It was hard to be thankful for that iron filing bile in the back of my throat, but I understand now what it means to be hungry, and thankful.

Eggs, cheese, grapes, bananas only if they aren't too green.

I remember when milk was less than two dollars a gallon. When I had my first one bedroom castle where the one true queen came and cleaned my bachelor's crusted kitchen.

Pasta, red wine, romaine, chicken.

The first time I made a girl dinner I was 12,
she was golden in the candlelight.
When we walked outside in the firefly fall air,
she showed me how you could eat a Honeysuckle
and we kissed with petal soaked lips.
I have not made my wife dinner in a while

White chocolate, cream cheese, blackberries, shortbread cookies

Only that I can breath in deep the warmth of her beside me. Surrounded by fading dawn and perfectly pillowcased. I am lost to you, hopeless to move. Eyes beg to drink in just another glimpse. Somewhere you are walking in the painted sands of dream near the shores of the waking world. And in this crumpled sheet embrace we will waste the day. Only give me this dew kissed moment, the light, and her to keep forever.

He is ethereal, gliding through the vapor curtains in rhythm to the music.
His father's gift, memories of the big kitchen where he made the cherry strudels. Here part of him moves the hands that paint laughter and the chime of crystal. Too much, not enough, herbs chopped and sprinkled on the sizzling stainless steel. The blade flashes it's silver grin upon the butchers block. Boil, stir, simmer, mix the colors on the pallet and brush on the final coat. Peaches from the stand down on the highway, ***** from the bay just a  few minutes walk down that dirt road. He works for there is peace here, he paints for that one girl's smile, and it is enough. Pour a glass of red and sit. Let us break bread together.