The Old Man’s Memory

Mosquito kisses

Late night love bites

Save all the scars and

Roll them back to those picnics.

Stomp on my memory

One more time.

Steering wheel and a phantom hand;

I’m calling out for you again.

Plastic bags and left-overs;

They will serve your memory again.

Cheesy hits and pcayune CDs,

Echoing laughters joint with your visual joy;

Board games,

The smell of a cheap perfume,

The trift-shops on the highway;

Only half-smoked Marlboro fag-ends,

The tarred ashtrays;

Yet, your hands are still on the steering wheel;

And I am wondering how driving that thing would feel.

Saturday evenings and the last suppers,

Children play with words and I only stutter;

Antique chairs that squeak whenever you sit,

Reading newspaper, ignoring the TV;

A football match!

The speaker is shrieking:

Victory! In which one side always lost.

And our heads tossed; our screams cheered;

Yet, you were muted…

You were always muted.

Sunday glee and the morning songs,

A feasty breakfast;

No gratitude saved for a dessert.

But we are in for a tea.

Always, in it

The tea-spoons clink.

Grab the keys, folks!

Drive through the drive-way,

Drive under that oak tree

Drive along that mud.

No matter how deep we sink!

Into the depths, we always sink!

And therein, my old man lies slain and in deep,

Half-way through that eternal sleep;

And I, the champion of fickle hearts,

Never dared to be a passer-by

Never cared for a promised visit.

So stomp on my memory one more time.

Light the matches and set all a-fire,

Since the idiot is killing time.

The idiot is killing her time;

Killing in the name of those memories of mine.