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Wednesday, September 17, 2008

A Homecoming Trilogy


Coming back to my home town
Was easier than going back to youth,
Or to pinpoint the same stars
We foolishly once called our own,

Yet still so difficult to see
Any semblance of familiarity
In these once-upon-a-streets
That haven't aged like me -


Searching the latest faces
For that angel-girl I loved,
Before life found its itchy feet
To leave her to time's own paces,

Sweet sixteen turned a sour thirty,
Waiting for her children to grow
Up with children of their own
Locked in a bitter-sweet trilogy,

Old memories call us to dance
With the dispassionate shuffle
Of forgetful senior citizens
That might have loved you once,

Or laughed at the roller-coaster
That now shakes us with fear
With the borrowed time that climbs
And rolls on ever, ever closer

To tunes of the nineteen-eighties:
Brash, fairground melodies
Marking its own turn of the times,
Now echoing blandly in virtual mp3s -


Out of synch with its technology,
Cold as a December without Christmas
And just as difficult to remember
The way we used to be wrinkle-free,

Between birth and death we lie
Lost in a less-than-holy trinity,
A survival of highs and lows
To a breathing scored by a sigh,

Suggesting the only truth in Life's Bible,
Written on our well-thumbed pages
In the most permanent ink,
Is that there can be no revival.

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