I think I'll be calling this series "The Cult of Memory".
.
The old man with one leg
wanders through the parking lot.
He drags his prosthetic in a march--
what was a familiar pace
is now performed by an unfamiliar body.
His strange muscles move him
back and forth from each end
of the complex parking lot.
Late at night, I often see his wife
attempt to help him with his stride.
He shakes her off with a grunt
and her tired, sad eyes follow him--
what was love for a familiar you
is now directed at an unfamiliar him.
But once, during summertime,
he was walking with his wife around the pool
and looped his arm around hers.
They walked in circles for a long time,
til the moon was above the water,
casting down a bright eye
that softened as they strolled.
.
I am writing about my neighbors
who are mostly retired and elderly,
because of their relentless desire
to hold onto each and every memory
what can be recalled and treasured
in the space of their small
1-bedroom apartments.
This strange dislocation between
memory and the present
is starting to happen to me
as I cannot let go of
what I can remember,
these memories of you & me.
.
0 comments:
Post a Comment