Trees form a jawline,
a hometown profile,
which looks the same
‘cept fields are cemeteries
and four gray sky walls
form a chain-link fence.
I dig for lost compositions,
buried under the holly bush
for safe-keeping,
but the crepe myrtle trees peel
childhood poetry which
drape me like hotel sheets,
thin and itchy.
I climb into the top bunk
on concrete steps,
which now lack railing,
and ask permission to enter
a place once hoarded
as home.
Cloudy, gray hair, am I dreaming?
Time has made my life
an Impressionistic painting.
A colorful umbrella behind
a watering wagon,
which no longer black and white
is most deceiving.
© 2022 | K.Hartless
Yard Sale of Thoughts 
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