Memories are made of Ash
Aaah Me!
All woebegone is me,
dreaming, reminiscing
of age-old youth,
and lost glory.
On the road to
Holy City.
Long walk in the burning sun,
from Santa Cruz
to the summit, and,
“All You Can Drink”
Apple Cider.
Fuzzy, youth-time memories.
A diary scratched
in lemon juice script
on crumbled paper.
A gopher, mad from the heat,
or too many mad poets
walking the highway,
chased me down the road
till I turned
and kicked it,
end over end,
down the hill.
O time, that ultimate trap.
I’m snared,
like a hedge rabbit
caught in a fine wire noose.
I sometimes wish they didn’t -
but my fidgety youth pants still fit,
after all these years.
