there’s a cowboy at the corner store
a showgirl in his truck
he’s dusty from the trail
she’s covered in stale glitter
I can think of six stories
and two limericks
right away
but catching his sad eyes
and her vacuous gaze at the horizon
I reckon on leaving their story
just a picture in my mind
the press
falling somewhere between needing a winch or a ratchet
to get out of bed and hurl my thoughts to the ether
lining up the letters on the iron press
hands sticky and stained with ink
did Ben Franklin realize the eventual turn of publishing
would turn to posting inane chatter and horny thoughts
and silly pet pictures and pithy quotes
and where was I going with my hammer
what I really need is a shovel or a spade
to bury myself deep within you
and if hardware and tools aren’t sexy enough
next time I’ll try sugar and fairy dust
hazy memory
saying hello is even harder now
than saying goodbye was so long ago
can anything new be drawn
from the deep well
where I had stuffed all the mess
will everything look the same
as my hazy memory allows
or will it be like when I drove past
my childhood home
and felt no connection
no memory drawing me closer
to the familiar facade from yellowed pictures
words in the wind
whether long or short
the wind takes my words away
leaving me bereft
behind a mask
swinging long hair behind her
she finds moving harder than ever
her limbs won’t obey her whims
too many phases of the moon
not enough dawns in her memory
walking by hordes each with stories
she carefully avoids interaction
for fear of her fears rising to meet her
easier to pass by rather than through
my heart breaks when I see her
so fragile and almost empty
behind the thin vellum she hides
her face animated
more a grotesque mask
betraying a life within
does she recall her youth
toiling in fields in hot summer
walking to school in the snow
falling in love at the diner
or is she already buried
a walking ghost
does she know her loneliness
is etched upon her face
and that all could change
if she opened
unhinged her rusty gate
she says it’s too late
with a crooked grin
but somehow
there has to be a way
The Word Rummager 