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There are pieces of my life
That remain
unpublished
Entire stories and songs
Kept in a suitcase
Under the bed
Where children whisper tales
Over campfire glow
And love is nothing but a pen pal.
You are no longer the encyclopedia future
generations will behold
Thumbing through yellowed pages
with wonder
Like a clothbound heirloom—
Something true but out of print,
Too difficult to find
In any store.
Now
In the pantheon of existence
there are
more chapters forgotten
Than remembered:
An endless array of photographs in boxes
So stained by years of sun-wear that the images fade
like memories.
Were you there that night on the beach
In the middle of the river of our youth
With moon-illuminated innocence,
And someone who was not your friend
Nibbled on your ear as I wondered
If I would ever be
What I could
Be?
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