Crumbs
by Odin Roark

Like a galaxy of discarded space junk,
we often never brush away the bits and pieces,
the pesky clean-ups of the past,
discarded remnants of once satiating experiences
whether with love,
business,
or family.

How willingly we afford memory its purchase
lingering beneath tear-weary pillows,
or the photo’s torn pieces
loitering about a shoe box’s remembrances,
or the dried toothpasts specks
still clinging to the brush
she left behind.

Then there are the left behind crumbs
of a carefully leavened career gone bad,
its patient rising to a nurtured presentation,
only to cave and fall upon anxious removal
from its warmth of readiness
and the ill-timed presentation to all.

Forever dependable remains…

The persistent fragments of family,
those “I’m full” moments
when the parent/child relationship has passed,
the communal dining of mutual tastes
no longer satiates maturity’s broadening tastes,
especially what one now chooses to ingest,
and with whom.

The unknown awaits…

Somehow knowing to overcome hunger pains of the past,
the staring down of mind’s propensity for habit,
the looking forward to the unpredictable nature of experience
with its masticating of life into finer and finer portions of sustenance,
is why the unknown remains ever mindful
there will always be crumbs left behind.

After all,
why should it be any different now.

It’s how it’s always been.