memory

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    On an afternoon he will not remember
    I watched a little boy follow his feet along
    the brick walkway, caught in the cracks —
    in the mystery of the moss and the
    pull of the pattern on his eyes not yet

    three feet off the ground. The sun
    looked over his shoulder like a friend
    as he stooped to touch — to read
    between the lines, to see a story
    he would find only once and then forget.

    I came home to hear the tales of those
    who had swum and run and jumped most
    all of their lives to get to their golden
    moment — one they would never lose:
    they stood as if nothing mattered more.

    Somewhere between podium and pavement
    is where I walk, where I write my story,
    sometimes seduced by winner-takes-all
    and grateful for those sidewalk afternoons
    I can remember for as long as they last.

    Peace,
    Milton

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    2 COMMENTS

    1. Oh, thank you for this, Milton. I’m likin’ your in between place a lot, actually. Stay right there and put forth a few more like this one every few weeks. Yea and amen.

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