Recollections lurk in side streets, pounce
at the small white bike, the wilted daisies
tied to rails at a pedestrian crossing.
Her voice, which talked about the little boy
who died, the same age as her daughter,
echoes in the rain. It haunts my wheels.
She left the run down library, her home
of books instead of betting slips and bottles,
took the bus to town. She found the groves
and terracotta quads of college, found
a world where words demanded a reply.
She only had to lose the battle once.
One day I may forget, but never this:
if someone says they want to die, talk on.
I push her smoke aside, refuse to think.
I know, as sure as words cannot be trusted,
driving through her life won’t change a thing.
..
..
reubenwoolley 