These fallen leaves
echo strange tragedies,
as roots rot, on the spot
and time’s fury does not
seem kind enough to stop.

Tiny green things, browning
and disintegrating,
as humans move to change
despite the desire to stay the same,
shedding memories like a lamb’s coat,
losing layers and layers to
our own frailty.
Mortality is the knife at our throat.

Fear is the thief of time,
and time is the rogue
who pilfers everything
we think we know or own.

The tree will go on but we won’t
leaves will come and go,
like the season’s melting snow
and all the rings inside the tree
will marks the passing of everything
including me.

Swift punt to the soda pop tin
Littering the low lit path before me
Flash back to kick the can
And hopscotch jumping rope
To wittled cans from which to smoke
And losing family to knotted rope

Years pile on tense shoulders
Bearing zirconium smiling teeth
Finding diamonds in my grief
But always pacing forward

To flash back on bronze days
Glowing like bonfire embers
Finishing the last of the thirty rack
Never realizing I was drowning
Just sad and aloof and smiling
Smoking bad **** from a PBR can

There are no children laughing
Playing hopscotch in the driveway
With a manicured lawn and pretty
Flowers in boxes attached to the windows

There's no degree framed in my office
Actually there isn't an office at all here
Inside this lived in two bedroom flat
Where I spend as much time as possible

There's no sleek foreign sports car
Candy apple red glimmering in the sun
Or vacation home nestled somewhere
I can't pronounce to go once a year

There aren't six figures in my account
Or country club lunches with the girls
Black card shopping sprees in the city
Or box seat opera season tickets

There is glitter on my eyelids
And an immense feeling of gratitude
When I wake up happy and free
Unapologetic and authentically me

~
In her sulking-place
alone and naked

framed in soft sepia
—the vintage, harlequin hue

at this supposed faded hour
she sits looking back on memory

she sits and stares
into the boudoir mirror

at herself
at her embonpoint

yes, at these *******
—at their landscape

how they fall
(like Niagara)

where they point
(like a compass)

what they tell (so fondly)
when pressed together

about their time
—their work and play

towers on the precipice
of judgment

both callous and
uncharitable

if the mirror
truly be her reflection

her vision is turned around
as illusion

—a study of tonality and tolerance
for one's own flesh

the room
an invitation

or perhaps
a lockaway

where she even keeps secrets
from herself
~