In less than a year you digested
a Puerto Rican baseball player,
certified horse inseminator,
disc  jockey, your sister’s
father-in-law,  a woman
named  Genevieve
                 and me.

Not much left after the pan
is boiled dry; memories,
residue and grit.

I recall quite accurately the day that I died
I caught a mirthful conversation between sibling
and parent on how ugly I was
It was in April around two o'clock on a Saturday
Other children were playing
I chose to stay upstairs , confined to my bed
That very day the music claimed my head
It filtered the good and the bad
The sad turns to song
'The wrong' settled in my fingers
Digits struck strings , crimson melody left the body
The hate trapped in sound mercifully went away
It continues to do so to this very day* ..

A storyteller wears a denim blue blouse with a caramel , marigold apron
Her children wonder aloud ,  seeking eye contact , relishing her approval
Exploring leaf strewn trails through forested countryside apartments
Bearing joy constrained with certain peace beside the wildflower,  carpeted alluvial shoreline* ...

which is to say
with all due respect
I hope to give
great offense to you
who is due no respect
in my opinion anyway
but you know
subtly.

In the morning I awake
With the after-taste
Of a half-remembered dream
And a barely formed face
Shadow of the past
And emotions that last

And some of these dreams
Would make a hero cry
And some of these dreams
No matter how I try
I know will stay with me
Until the day I die

                                   By Phil Roberts