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Yes, each morning
I clean up the miles I
drove yesterday
for a fair account I
restart from
zero.
So each morning is
clear each day
a new one.
It is sweeter
than love the sense
of being home
anywhere while
walking the unknown.
A small square
a store a gas
pump and here
I belong.
I live far from
the ones I love.
When they die
do they go much
farther? No.
This exile of mine's
like being dead
through the living or
between the dead
breathing still.
For all goes
from a virtual place
to another
in the treasure box
of my mind.
Memory with my
gypsy blood is
what I have got.
All is loss
all is flashing by
and I like it so.
All is gone
is a snapshot
like a train seen between
two houses
a small piece
at a time.
Like a house
we see from the train
a light through the
window
fading in the dark.
All is say hello
say goodbye
I thank and forgive you
with my first hand
shake.
Do I build?
Sure, but soft:
a tent in the desert
one more page
in the scrapbook
of dreams.
copyright 2015
Toti
O'Brien |
