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

Cradle

As his innocent eyes dimmed
to darkness
the last he saw
was the torn leather seats
of that old car

(A gilded prince
of years too short
and a story
that went
on and on
long after he had fallen

asleep)

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.