Thursday

My Inventory



Save for her voice
from upstairs
drifting loose
I am in the quiet
alone with my thoughts
this notebook
taking stock
pulling strands

the walls around,
I feel them knowing,
understanding better than me
why I came here
it is as if they can see the future
and won’t tell me if it is good
or if it is bad.

The mended memories of home
cloudy today again
the open fields, closed
the empty rose beds
my grandfather dead this long time
his grave, my blood, unvisited
until now
in my memory that often
forgets it’s place

I put my pen down
I can no longer hear her voice

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