Why are memories like roads?
The winding stretch of hard manmade stone seems to catch that which is left behind, that which is to be forgotten.
Do those who travel these roads leave
their past behind them, litter among travelers?
Iíve picked up a few and in return,
drop a few pieces of myself behind.
The quiet music rings in my ears,
the drums rhythmically keeping pace
to the laughter of a child
at his fatherís jokeÖ and motherís playful scorn.
A simple black suitcase and black leather briefcase keep each other company next to a tie. Are his thoughts on the coming
business deal, or on the child hugging his leg that morning?
The silence within the car clashes with
the echoes of anger; ceaseless quarreling.
Slender shadows of grass to remember the sharp jab of words, unnoticed tears of love.
The rain falls like the shattered glass.
Black rubber still scars the asphalt and tar.
Searing twisted metal scrapes through my mind.
Who were they? Did they make it home?
My own memories
are just more litter on the shoulder.
Maybe someone will pick them up
© 2013 Grayson Bodenheimer