A Friday Night Near April

For whatever reason, my mind
presents my mind’s eye with
a memory of walking home,
with my guitar, from school.




What caused it to re-surface?

A mem’ry of my antecedent
self set on a certain
or uncertain path, bound
or free to be the one from
whom was guidance given
to this ink; life to all this paper.

Now that’s a crowd of people
(fifteen in and but one out)
to fill the space about the
tired taps, the clinking glass,
beneath the raised voices!

Beneath the raised voices sinks
the sound of someone leaving
with another – now their table’s occupied.

For whatever reason, memories
of walking home from school,
with my guitar, have ceased their
surfacing, and so a poem’s ended.


Image credit – Dorte

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