the past keeps sending me inscribed invitations;
i read them but never RSVP. it’s rude of me, i know,
but between the lines i find irony in formica, linen & good china,
women who wear heels to garden parties,
heels that sink in soft summer grass.
i was a child of university: grammar in my cereal bowl,
syntax on the barbeque publish-or-perish professors
smoking pot in the back room while we splashed in the pool.
behind the smiles & cigarettes tomes of transgression
tucked away like drafts of unfinished novels
they thought i’d never see
there was a cottage on the beach
where arguments might drown in the swells,
where night’s high tide would sweep
under the deck as if to return treasures taken
or wash away those charming 50s façades.
now there’s just sandpipers,
the lagoon with its darting insects
& memories in every tidepool
brine is a fine preservative.
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