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Crabs & White Wine


The dead
are like dinners we ate
before,
and recall
in our faint memories
of Sunday afternoons
at the Yacht Club;
those crabs;
that white wine

Old friends long passed
are like old meals remembered,
and just as gone

It's useless to mourn them

Mourning is just a bad habit,
and life is a slap in the face

Turning the pages
of my old diaries,
a rancid stench
of molded teens
blow up in my face

I watch the doings
of the long dead,
going about their chores;
our mothers and fathers
doing what was expected
and at times what was not,
but always with that same sense
of the natural,
the common;
nonetheless, since decades,
in closed circuits,
loops of repetition,
like tunes on repeat in your head
when you hike alone through the valleys
of The King's Trail
in your own persuasive aliveness;
the mothers and fathers
ash
and choice recollections;
doing their deeds forever;
the limited forever
of your memories
in traditional up-keeps
forever locked
in their dead-locked dead ends;

imprints
in moldy printed matter
in a water-damaged basement
below the cobble stone street level
of the poor side of town

Now is a transitory comrade
and an eternal companion




Fri vers (Fri form) av Ingvar Loco Nordin VIP
Läst 91 gånger
Publicerad 2020-12-11 19:16



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