No News Like the Past

As I age I get younger
find my pockets heavy with sand
writing on the back of a guitar strung
with chords from every rhyming
year, decade, numinous day
and resonating night with scattered
premonitions in the twinkling
beads of non-linear dreams
I wake to raisin oatmeal
on the sidewalk in the mid-fifties
I pick up a bottle, it slips
and shatters into a galaxy
groceries in a bag and a hole
tears open and I fall through it
landing in the shopping cart
Mom in a dress and snow boots
out to the car a blue Plymouth
she drove away whistling a tune
from South Pacific, I still hear it
looking out my generous window
or standing in my back door it
smells like rain in cheeky Texas
wind picks up brings the lake
through the South Loop and into
my temporal lobes, Igor barking
the monkey in the trees and me
listening to older than old blues
wishing I could hear the shore
reminding me there is no news.

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About mrsorenson

all over the place
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