This Functional Life

Pictures from a recollection and wishes
of somewhere else in time and distance
where trees are grown for no reason and I can love
the moon

Several sawed-off shotguns
wasting in the woodshed and suits
with dusty shoulders from hanging too long
in the closets of rusty soldiers
Maybe in church on Sunday
where real seems sometimes surreal but yet so real
that thanks should be given for bloodshed
and all the spankings behind the woodshed
because more than our shoulders are dusty

Must he
hide behind the squint and swagger
when all that is needed is a smile to sweet the bitter
swallowed with a childhood chased with annual migrations
and carpetbaggers from God-knows-where
who appear in bedrooms and kitchens
calling themselves family

from the sweetness of her love until
tears fall because of daily realizations and recognition
of mortality, of loss
because nothing lasts forever outside this room

Sitting on a sunset
smiles become vivid recollections and even pictures
will not remain – memories can’t last forever
like stale toast
popped up in Pompeii and frozen to yesterday

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