What we will talk about

Under leaden skies

Heavy with guilt, (and if we need it, rain)

Under leaves wet with dewdrops

Memories sliding off

Like cold sweat on fevered brow

Plop-plop into dirty puddles beneath

our anxious, nervous feet

We will stand and talk

Of things not worth remembering…

 

And then

On see-saws of rotting wood

Like the scales of rickety, but righteous justice

and on Benches of rusted steel

With fine layers of dust

and useless heart-shaped cages scrawled on them

with forgotten names, (now long since free),

held prisoner within

We will sit, cross-armed

Worried knees, shivering together in the rain 

…and we will sit, and accuse one another

of not remembering enough.

 

 

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