Behind me the wall
flowers with reflections,
recollections tear
their colour through the rigid bricks
to bear the light tracing glimpses
on the screen, and there he is,
the one, smiling widely before
the shining sea, and the other,
far in time, but over there, looking wistfully at me.
And here, my mother’s belly round
with me, holding my father’s hand in hers,
before the wearing cancer and old age,
and his worries about the always
frightening finances.

The one is married with two kids,
his son born on my birthday,
and the other,
well he took all my dreams,
traded them up for oil and diamonds.
And my father, he sits by the fire every night
poking the embers with a stick,
turning them over, like my mother
in her marble box, as I
look over all the shining splendour
of their faces on my wall
and turn my back
to watch the setting sun
and count my fleeting blessings.

01/01/2014

Posted on 01/01/2014
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