There is a constant gentle knock

                           at the back door.

              When I answer it is the breeze,

the cool evening air,

                           the yellow sun spilled

              on the horizon. A chipmunk

stares at me, turns tail

                           and dives down a hole.

              Disappears like yesterday,

last week, all the years.

                            It’s the ghosts of memories

              knocking. A reunion

of the stumbles, bonfires,

                            flat tires, fireworks.

              Geysers of my twenties

that still steam predictably.

                            Faded and distended tattoos

              of unforgotten names and faces,

and unforgiven words.

                            Their scythe haunts me.

              I search their vapor trails.

Wonder what distance

                            separates us. If there

              is any chance you reach

out like Michelangelo’s god,

                            touch what you remember

              of me. Is it a sweet or sour taste?

One that was spit out?

                            Or indifferent and forgotten?

              The past is a calving glacier

time’s ocean melts and swallows.

                            Though ageing’s dimming

               light still sparkles

on the water’s surface.