Mother Lode

I squat like a miner;

sift through rubble,

barefoot in Levis.

Memories swirl the pan ―

most of them look the same;

unfossilized, too liquid to keep.

Ruby lips. The American dream. 

Now and then a sparkle ― a nugget

looks up at me with human eyes.  

Clementine!  Can't take everything, darling.

Just a few. I pack it neatly in the box

labeled "Initial Boom".

Souvenirs line up like herring.

Gradually decompose,

bloom sweet and pungent;

fertilize a second chance ―
my destiny.

tk/July 2015


R.A.D. Stainforth brings my words to life...

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Wanted

Modest lunchbox.

Preferably tartan.

Brodie or MacGregor.

No thermos necessary.

Replacement for brown bag.

Bologna and mayo on white.

Box of Sun-Maid sunshine.

How nice it would look,

conspicuous on the coat rack,

with books in the bicycle basket.

Undeserving.

A lesson in contentment.

Maybe they couldn't be bothered.

Now I hoard.

Tool, document, tackle,

anything with buckle and handle.

Enough for a dozen lunches.

tk/May 2014


R.A.D. Stainforth...love the way he rolls his Rs in Brodie and Mac... 

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