Old Neighborhood Stories

I drove past today,

said hello to nature nearby,

years older, more sage,

aware of everything I commonly ignored.

I wondered about their being here,

knowing when then,

I would frequent their energy,

with thoughts of my own,

total disconnect yet within

their stone-reaching range,

always a touch, or easy duck

to avoid interrupting their unwound

shelter ready for our eyes.

~

I walked inside a graffiti drawn

room, held memory again,

wondered where they all might be,

the voices and faces and scrutiny

bore the same witness

another time,

have they returned ever again,

and wondered the same

as we all do when we

return to our prime to question,

whether our same ideal

can be strong today,

or does it weaken like rhyme

in poorly drawn script.

~

Today I do see the same,

young people holding hands,

a family together,

watching children grow,

around soccer balls and angst,

a lively parade of instinct and innocence,

the only interruption

being held back,

not knowing whether this day,

might change the scope of an

evening ahead,

a reminder of yesterday,

perhaps a notion,

a look, glance, bump in the side,

reminds me of a different time,

when all of our sublime

aspiration seemed to be

just alright.

~

I drove on, trying to let go,

of that very time, that same response

to a memory I did cherish,

to fond nostalgia

we all do witness,

did, can, will, want, would

need

to recognize, need to,

canonize.

That was our time,

and seems on some sunny morning,

when we least anticipate,

wish to perhaps forget,

we always will somehow return

to where it was,

we first began, not really though,

where we might have thought,

here is where we will land,

yet again,

we once believed to be true,

what today might only remind ourselves,

once we were

what we can ponder,

as having been,

a different time,

yet always the same.

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