Artifacts of the Mind
There is a secret drawer
no one may ever find,
unless I'm excavated like an archaeological site
for remnants of the past.
Filled with locked memories of fishing,
playing around the house on a Saturday afternoon,
walking to school or home by moonlight,
in the woods in the snow from ice skating on a Sunday night.
A laugh from the unknowing innocence of children,
we emerge and high step through a marsh of cat-o'-nine tails
to the side of the road
where police arrive
and a truck to tow the Buick station wagon
back to the highway.
Police leave, and again
my mother's hands are on the wheel.
You would live that day
to die a decade later in another car accident.
These artifacts resurface forty years later
as tears crossing the street,
the Metro line, on my way to work,
excavated from an archaeological site,
the remnants of the past,
the artifacts of my mind.
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