August 25

In the filter of memory that place–
which had four walls and was alive
with people, there for a cup or a paycheck,

whose furniture was carefully chosen
to match the shade of paint on the walls
and the art, which were photographs

taken by someone as invisible now
as the reason we had run inside–
has been reduced to a window

speckled with raindrops
which broke the traffic light
into countless shattered shades.

The only face I longed to see
bursting through the front door
long ago gone from this city.



A day is not done, until it's filled with words.

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