poetryrepairs 15.07:075

: Echoes

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We take apart what took so long to put together like children playing on carpets with tinkertoys, but we are not children. The years now have their own stairway and nooks of time we never left. We have seen age wear away the face that was our face and set before us another outline in the looking glass. The lines under the eyelids, you say, were not expected, and I ask, for there still are questions which though now inconsequential, yet what after all did we expect? There are only the old addresses and the echoes like the sound still ringing in the seashell. The past, like the tide, comes back. Memory evokes the wanted image which will not be left behind. So was it under the August sun when, like an Egyptian figurine, with up-raised arms you held the orange globe of dawn. Your body in the Atlantic summer all bronze and scented with the salt of ocean spray returns continually.

poetryrepairs #215: 15.07:075


Margaret did her duty for thirty years then crossed the time she decided was enough. And left. No fuss. Just an empty cubicle, uncluttered desk, random papers, a space no longer hers. I hardly knew her Ė a tall woman, platinum blonde, sincere, shy supervisor. An 8 x 10 photo of her shih tzu and bearded collie lay framed on her grey desk. She spoke about the labor in their grooming. I shared the wallet snapshot of my boxer. On weekdays she had someone walk her two twice a day and feed them. Then she was gone. The day after Memorial Day she left. Left without a word. Now a different face is here. Soon Iíll not be here. The many times I see me going that way. First, a lingering, then gone. Something in her absence doesnít go away.

poetryrepairs #215: 15.07:075

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"Echoes" previously appeared in Looking for an Eye by PETER KROK