Puddled

The rain is banished from the air

And puddled over darkened pavement.

Squirrels are skittish,

Testing sidewalks with short sprints

From dying tree to dying bark

And up to barren branch.

The empty sky is singing

Clear my spirit.

My memory is sharp,

But I've rebuilt from smoke and rocks

And burnt up timber

I can't remember how often.

They were all the same.

They're not alike one bit.

A legion,

Faces sharp and rounded,

Scents vanilla, talcum powder, strawberry cream.

I haven't pictures.

Several died before the camera phones,

And I was never one for photos anyway.

Some days I'll slip and see

A fuzzy sky-blue turtleneck,

A grey and black knit sweater

Tight about a long and skinny torso,

A professor after school more adolescent boy

Than educated woman.

I gave my everything to most of them.

I never see them anymore.

I live alone

With years that grow

Like puddles underneath a roof

That slowly drips.

You never notice how they pool

So deeply

With the months.

So many friends have slipped,

The floors with time too slick,

The humid air too heavy.

I sit and stand up steady

Complacent,

Yet still craving.

Dying yet embarrassingly alive.

- 9/23/25