Friday, August 24, 2012

Like A Jim Croce Song








There are photographs
in the attic
of my mind.
Old black and whites
and some
in sepia tones.

They are moments
captured from
inky shadows,
memories of the
days when I was
a better man.

Now I am
somebody else.

There are pictures
in sticky page albums
but they exist
only in my dreams,

I have surrendered
the luxury of possessions
as delicate as these,
subject to curling
from the heat,
mildew on rain soaked
days spent moving

too tired to
sit still.

The attic of my mind
saves the happiest moments;
the birth of a child,
a wedding, potluck
lunches at Grandma's
house on Sunday
afternoons, snapshots of
young love
in a wooded park..

Nights alone I sit
and leaf though them
sometimes
trying to remember
sometimes
trying to forget.