I collect things.
At 5 it was the nightmares of free-falling
from my mother's bedroom balcony.
At 7 it was flashes of a child's mistake
in crossing the road alone.
At 12 it was compliments from dad,
my most prized collection of all.
I also collected soap. I would open their box, giving rose, tangerine
and hospital disinfectant momentary escape.
At 15 I collected reassurance,travelling to the Falls of Chagrin
in search of it.
Ironically, it had always resided in my pen.
At 16, it was poetry.
Dickinson's and My Mother's. It resonated,
amidst the hustle and bustle of workaholism.
At 20, I collected mirrors- I kept them for A Better Day.
At 5 it was the nightmares of free-falling
from my mother's bedroom balcony.
At 7 it was flashes of a child's mistake
in crossing the road alone.
At 12 it was compliments from dad,
my most prized collection of all.
I also collected soap. I would open their box, giving rose, tangerine
and hospital disinfectant momentary escape.
At 15 I collected reassurance,travelling to the Falls of Chagrin
in search of it.
Ironically, it had always resided in my pen.
At 16, it was poetry.
Dickinson's and My Mother's. It resonated,
amidst the hustle and bustle of workaholism.
At 20, I collected mirrors- I kept them for A Better Day.
