Story Tellers

There are no photographs
out of which he
smiles

no garlanded frames
or charcoal sketches

moist eyes and choked whispers
utter his name
anxiously
careful not to uncover
those dusty memories
too quickly
and make it all too real

all over again

Faded Memory

Did the rains slash down
on the windshields
of that old car
like it does today?

Was that the last he heard?
And saw?

Along with the muffled sobs
of his helpless mother
and the constant hum
in his young head
heavy

with uninvited sleep.