by Patricia Wallace Jones
I travel back to certain streets,
a row of trees, the sandstone rock
where we met as kids for kick the can;
to the graveyard down by the river
where I still sing I Know You Rider
wrap your stone in bones and roses.
Like a tongue, slow to forget
a missing tooth, I am drawn to this place
where the air is close and hope, while faint,
feels warm to hold.
I don’t sit at our table, but close enough
to overhear, not the song we left unsung,
but a new release that leaves me hesitant
to leave alone.