What are we but a bag of bones
Held together by an acre of wrinkled,
Skin filled with
Stale memories.

Do we pick the memories,
Or is it a spinning lottery
With strings stretching off to some
Invisible Puppet Master missing
The kind of control He craves?

When we open that door to the past
We come face to face
With a person that
Sort of resembles
The thin girl or boy
We once knew
So fleetingly.

We should have paid
Closer attention.

Now he or she is full of saturated fat
Suffering from the Santa Ana blues
After experiencing a three way bypass
Along with other challenges
To keep breathing.

And who am I to scoff or snort?
Me with exposure to
Formaldehyde in the early 80’s
And the three hour
Rotor router job to
My sinuses,
Or what about that
Appendix that exploded
That I thought
Was bad food.

Oh, if we could but mold
Our own block of clay
Instead of letting time do the job for us.
__________________________________


Discover the historical fiction novel, My Splendid Concubine, by Lloyd Lofthouse, (click here) at this AuthorsDen page.

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