and sometimes
it doesn’t rhyme
but just seeps out
like effluent
washing over the cobbled streets
of a town you’ve never been to
and stumbling, burdened
with the mannerisms
of my father’s father’s
and these feet
that must walk
and listening now
as the roar of humanity approaches
with it’s atavistic howl
coming closer
i draw these curtains
inward
to step back, barefootedly
toward the shelter of a memory
that is not mine
but shared collectively
and remembered
by the whispering of the trees
and falling asleep
on an afternoon so long ago
Greg Alston is a gardener, cook, father and some other things, too.
Boulder Weekly accepts poetry and flash fiction submissions at 450 words/35 lines or fewer and accompanied by one-sentence bio of the author. Send to [email protected]