The plastic wrapped cheese and bread slices were weightless
in my pack while I walked through the green stubble
that threatened the front walk. I should have brought
fruit. They were mottled like the cloud cover
today, so I didn't. Maybe I can pick something from
the gutters that haven't been cleaned in two years.
"Impossible is nothing against the most improbable."
Your words not mine. "You are what you eat."
Point "A" to point "B".
Only now it’s just me. A point "A" with nowhere to go.
I thought I would well in the months following my departure.
I’ve been told I am simply out of touch,
that it would hit me later,
and it didn’t.
I stood in front of the old haunt
where we built a red edged closeness.
And it stared back,
half eaten by wild grass, caked thick
in pollen and tree bits. The thought occurred,
watching it weep rust, sagging in the center of this God damned downpour,
that there will never be another grin speckled trip
to Colorado’s foothills.
