Tuesday, July 3, 2012

Don't Forget

Your countertops hold fruits of such glory,
but glory is such an ephemeral thing,
and fruit, if not eaten,
turns quickly sour.
I suppose the same thing can be said of words,
and butterflies,
wine, and silence,
and all those other silly intoxicants
that I keep a little too close to me these days.
So what's a man to do, but give in,
and try to let love become his only constant.


Your cupboards are vast and full of such rich stock:
your memories have scale and grandeur,
but funny thing about memory,
it can, so casually, toss your heart in a cardboard box,
seal it with the sticky pull of packing tape,
pull down the clanging metal door,
and click the padlock closed
until you only take it out
so you can reminisce about
who you were.
I fear to lose it, too,
But I prefer to carry my heart
sewn into the laces of my shoes
where I can pick everything up along the way:
all that dirt and dew.

No comments:

Post a Comment