when memories are scraps

scraps of our life together
scattered on the floor
tossed repeatedly

when our life becomes
junk hoarded

each crystal figurine
seems to, in a dusty coat,
and shake a finger

each newspaper, one
on another,
screams a headline of

when the dog sniffs out
an old banana peel

drags it along
thinking, one day, this will be

lament the loss (when rain forms a widow’s veil)

when rain falls
in the nascent glow
of a streetlight,
it seems to wear a veil,
a widow’s gown

you and i
have felt the distance
between two knees
sitting too close

it’s taken its toll

the bells of the church
agree – and inside
The Beatles lament
the loss
and turn
defiantly –

those headlights in the rain.