September in the evening with the lawn mowers.
El Dorado, Arkansas. September 1971 by the pool.
In the eyes of an old man, are the eyes of a child,
worn down to his soul. In the hands of an old man
is air in the turquoise bruises of time. Medalions
of workhorse days. I have forgotten
and yet I still remember. I remember memories that existed
for my family. With these same hands a child once touched
the soft blush of his mother’s face, as they tremble on the keys
of the piano, as they lay frightened of the Epiphone.
I hold you here in El Dorado and I never let go.
My hold like a frightened sudden vice of fragile bones.
Did the days go by outnumbered by seconds. Did you
leave me as well. At what point did we sit across from each other afraid to
jump. Or is silence emptiness. I have known you once. You were a friend of
mine. My very self. I have only a facade of memories and everything else.
Everything else.
I mark the conversation upon my soul.
September 