Kitchen Sink

My brain is like a faucet

flow the memories

down:

what good, half-full moment

do you encounter down the stair,

past the front door–

away from me–

you creek towards a polaroid camera,

an album soon to be extinct

 

I want my mind to be only mine

to see,

only mine to use– to use it at will

to do well, to be real

honesty

can never be the complete story

when you enter a courtroom and swear

to God to say the truth, and nothing but

 

“The truth will set you free,”

so let it–

remember me

in fireflies over Aunt Mary’s backyard

and watching Uncle Richie with his cigar,

playing catch

and licking dinner off Thanksgiving plates.

 

As for now, I’ll walk you towards the door

and find the kitchen sink:

I’ll turn on the faucet, feel the cold,

and start cleaning.

 

February 24, 2015

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