Exponential Memories

Exponential Memories

I am 8 and my grandmother

tries to hold my hand

as we step from the curb.

Defiant, I pull my hand

away from her protective grasp

and strut across the street.

She understands and lets me go.

I am 18 and she calls to see

if I can come by and help her

retrieve some old things

from the rafters of the garage.

Irritated, I make an excuse,

lie, and tell her that I am

already late for work.

I am 28 and I find a letter

written by my grandmother

amongst the grocery coupons

and credit card bills. She wants

me to know she is proud of me

and happy that I’ve found someone

to love. I think about calling her.  

I am 38 and I knock on her door

and wonder where she could be

in the middle of the afternoon.

Incapacitated; she never answers.

betrayed by a small blood vessel

in her brain, she lies motionless

in the back bedroom unable to cry out.

I am 48 years old, sitting alone

in the dark. I long for a hand to hold

or a loving voice, on the other end

of the phone, that is just happy I called.

I think of when we listened to the Beatles

and the many times we played catch

because my father was just too busy.

SMG

Union Square

Union Square

A bum recites absurdist poetry
to passersby and collects change
in a fake Burberry cap while I
slowly sip my Sunday morning
and shop for open air jalapeños,
mushrooms and cilantro.

Paint bucket drummers provide
a steady backbeat as the weekend
consumers come out to worship
and the church crowd is released
from weekly servitude.

Across the square, a painter discusses
politics with a jewelry maker
and a guy in a Gumby t-shirt.

As the sun plays peak-a-boo
with the masts of Mannahatta,
I wonder how long the fresh cut roses
will last if I decide to splurge.

A toddler pilots a stroller down the sidewalk,
parents in tow, while four teens knee and kick
an innocent bean bag back and forth
above the ghosts of potter’s field.

The voice of the city is clear this morning
and it sings to me; a medley of ballads,
seductive love songs and, of course,
a full complement of the blues.

SMG

Fractal Memories

Fractal Memories

The Burden of Time
distorts memories;
blonde pilsner days
and coffee nights
of years gone by
foul and turn cold
when left unattended.

The shimmer and glint
of sunlight on water ripples,
dulls as it rolls away
in thoughtless waves.

The faces of loves
left and lost splinter
into slivers of regret
and flout recall; a puzzle
never again complete
for too many pieces
are now lost or broken.

SMG