Staring into the future as if to see something misunderstood, possibly hope – probably not. The resting baby on her shoulder waits, her two boys still wait.
“Nothing changes through the one-way window. Growing stubble, anchored tight crows feet guarding steel blue eyes, his sun baked skin doesn’t even sweat” was scribbled on the old police report, now exposed for granddaughters not met to read.
The assumed word Monster now appears on his face above Husband, Dad and Grandpa.
I always learn something when I cross my favorite bridge, this time it was for a “Faces” writing workshop taught by Matt Love September 16th 2017.
Tired eyes awaken anyway to stare
through coffee steam Blended lines
turned by the sun overlap as if stickers on an edgy club wall
Torn stubs fall
from an overbooked calendar pausing
to be glanced at like posters once stapled to a pole
Sore feet crush grass burnt brown and bleached
Fresh wrinkles appear like scars
on a machine built for speed— traded for a moment
waiting to be reflected on and laced into history
Energy spent, bartered and consumed
in the season of the sun Leave one Summer’d
When time holds its hand over the mouth of a life, what do you do
Dust off memories
Find old pictures
Focus on moments – Gone
Seize every moment
Live while you can
Do it quickly…
Time will strike again.