a friend asked and I admitted
I don’t
I will be reading someone else’s poem
and something leaps out from between two lines
and kicks loose whatever held the logs stacked
and nothing I can do will let me see
whatever leapt and kicked
I just have those logs to stack again
or I will be remembering some particular ride
on a Harley or a Honda or a Yamaha
and something I saw or heard or smelled
leaps across years wearing a brand new coat
which flutters to my feet and slowly disappears
while my fingertips reweave it into a poem
or worse
a memory I really do not want slips out
of wherever it has hidden and yanks behind it
the ache, the fear, the guilt from then
without any dilution, and all I know to do
is burn those into some page for others
to read or hear and know they mean
everything and nothing, a pseudo-history
with villains, charlatans, and thieves
but no heroes and no good endings
the princess dies at the stake, her cousin
marries the villain or his henchman
the pegasus rubs off its silver saddle
in the forest, and flies back to where
water is sweet and clear, the world spins on
nobody and no gods care apparently
that nothing worked out right
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