Thursday, October 7, 2021



One of those hot humid Illinois summer evenings
where fireflies blink like my synapses firing
putting dormant memories in a new context
while I feel the humid breeze and hear the corn grow

Places that creaks like that old wooden screen door,
the slow draw on the spring that groans in the stretch
until it lets go and the wooden slam
another Truth breaks free onto the front porch

I sit with him, Truth, on the porch swing,
we rock back and forth stirring up memories
like those cheap snow globes, one of those souvenirs,
in hopes of bringing back the emotions of the past

Reconsidering judgments made that smothered
all relationship, a saboteur of myself
without realizing what I was doing…
now I stand with Truth in the crossroads

Poem 21-200B

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