Thursday, January 19, 2017

Tourist

I barely move now. Nearly still.
Crawling beneath a shell, 
the past stacked high, scales 
for every memory. 
Inside each, a photo or two. 
Some letters. A wool cap.
With my load, I amble 
along, here and there. 
No sense of where
The question every day, 
where now? 
What is life without a hill to climb? 
There must be a hill to climb.
A widow must step outside 
and look around,
pick up a tool and get to work. 
She must choose a path and clear it, 
then fill it with flagstone. 
No good to stroll about  
like some old tourist 

in Chinatown. 

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