Showered Memories

That was the year I sat in the shower,

cooling water soaking cotton threads

sticking to gooseflesh skin.

Lacking energy to strip them away

flailing single threaded amore.

Dusky tempered murmurs echoing fictitious walls,

songs of the sea,

songs of a boat,

songs of dashed hopes.

Blistered hair threads embracing disheveled shallows,

bits, pieces of blueish black memories slip from organized file folders,

mingling with waves of taciturnity.

AC too high,

windows open,

maybe we can cool the forest.

Wooden posts flash through side windows along the winding gravel roads,

pushing pedals on the precipice of a cliff.

Trees reach toward the ground,

yearning for grated rock,

thirsty for earthworms,

moist moss.

My mother told me that one day I’d own a boat,

I own no boat.

No galleys,

no oars,

no wood.

Isolated in a cardinal minivan

tumbling over loose stones on the precipice of illegal licenses,

the threat of being pulled over the edge.

Shredded blankets do little to block out the light.

She liked it that way.

Fresh rain to wash her braid,

tied away with a shoelace.

As I pass her by neither smile,

grime foundation coating skin,

hindering ecstasy.

Speaking before I know what I’m saying:

A penny for your thoughts and a dollar not to tell them.