Then one day 
becomes a thousand 
and the words 
so many words
all blend together 
like dirty water 
into an oblivion 
and you wonder 
what’s it for 
to find something 
closer to truth 
or the truth 
that you know 
or maybe nothing 
any more significant 
than a drop
of fresh rainwater

I think 
the heart 
continues to 
break once 
it has 
been broken 
but not 
like the
very first 
it chips 
away at 
the chips 
that have 
fallen where
they may 

I remember a time 
not so long ago 
when the best meant
the best and not 
the least of the 
worst or the better 
liked but the brightest 
I remember when winning 
was the first to
cross the finish line 
and not the one 
who survived the assault 
from one’s own opponents 
I remember a time 
when being smart and 
intelligent and moral and 
oh so most important 
kind 
gave a person aspirations 
and hopes and dreams 
but now what now 
now that nothing counts 

A sweet tawny 
surrounded by yellow 
inside of black 
sitting on counter 
of marbled gray
calico or brindle 
depending upon where 
you are standing 
two tea lights 
swim in crystal 
ponds near but
not next to 
the naked salt
cellar and pepper 
mill giving way
to the vase
a nervous debutant 
or her mother 
holding her daisies 
smiling upon me
the photographer of
this morning’s tableau 

It must be 
the age that 
we are when 
leaving is becoming 
more the rule 
than the exception 
it’s every day
or seems so 
that we lose 
another old friend 
but what never 
does really go 
are the memories 
rest in peace 
to those who 
left too soon