I am a memory

but to whose mind do I belong

as long as life shall last

I’ll find the mind that I belong to

He’s probably a nice man

who like to sit on a bench

with a brown lunch bag filled

with bread for the birds

maybe I am his memory

or perhaps there is a feathered angel

that sits above a hill on the golden moon

maybe I am his memory

I want to be the memory of someone beautiful

Maybe I’m not a memory, but a dream

someone sitting at a desk

scratching a black pen

on white paper

on a brown wood desk

I can see her now etching my nose

which nuzzles my wife’s cheek

as she holds a small boy

my small smiling son

but maybe I’m more than a

dream

a memory

maybe I’m a song

a drumbeat heart

lyrical thoughts

clothes shuff-shuffling softly

aloud and amidst the sounding summer colors

but there is a chance that I

am more than a song

even more than a story

of someone

I don’t think I could ever grow up.