I don't want you to find me in these later years. I can't cry anymore when I think of you.
We were young in the music of our age. We danced (so closely) to "Me and Mrs Jones" The top room of the familiar bar where we were all alone except for one couple playing pinball.
I'm broken finally. The white hair, the pounds padding me like Bart on the field. I'm broken in my heart, the one place you only have touched.
I am broken in the days and nights. The flesh colored clouds slide over us as it did so long ago. I can't sing even to the songs we loved as each one of us moved in the roiling grass. Shattered, I am veined with the silver of old mirrors.
Stopping by the road in the summer rain I sigh the loss of many things. Things chipped now and cracked. My face falls, like shards of failed glass. I cry out for you.
Words are frail bones. I fail to reach them although they stain my breaking heart.
As my husband slips in the mire of Parkinson's, he will not know me very soon.
I write about you with capricious longing. The touch you gave of seeing me home. The Marijuana was not that strong.
Don't cry for me Alabama. I am here where you left me.
Caroline Shank September 15, 2021
This is a new poem I am trying to know. A broken memory that slides up and down the heart of me.