He looked at me and shook his head.
‘Son,’ he said, ‘you don’t think right and it bothers me.’
If only I’d fallen further from the tree.
I search the bough and dig the roots,
footing loose under leaf cascade
I strip the bark and count the rings to find a gauge.
Kicking rubble clear of recesses I have mined,
I find kindnesses kept in corners, and dust them clean.
Dirty, lean, forlorn faded scenes,
moments rendered in muted pastel mosaic.
Sic transit gloria.
Such brief euphoria
A cobbled collection of passed injustice,
weakened bliss and cracked smiles
draped over miles of life and lot
and lessons since forgot.