347 A. Street

Kicking at warped plywood,
what used to be a window,
gives out, then in, making way,
breaking my heart a final time,
as I step off the fallen leaves,
for ass-backwards traveling
through a future I thought lost,
hoping memories shaped as tears
will subside, ending the flood
that has kept my future at bay,
continuing to sabotage my efforts
by erasing perhaps three or more
of every five strides I manage,
my soul distracted by the sounds
of a few hundred or so footfalls,
I estimated as failed steps.

It’s a poor sort of memory that only works backwards.  -Lewis Carrol  1832-1898