and acrid memories embrace
the hollow echo of morning traffic.
like the irrelevant patchwork of old buildings.
I savor the air.
passing for lack of time;
dying without fulfillment;
left behind by routine struggle.
floats between halcyon days
and a steady grip.
Hands greet railings
like old friends,
comforting one another on a long journey.
Alongside steps I’ve taken
clings to peeling paint on sun-dried wood.
So far I’ve been…
How much further still?
© Michael D. Day – March 5, 2010