By  Zachariah

Here where the light lingers

amidst the grass and flowers

and where the trucks bray

like horses in the pasture

I come in search of memories

and thoughts left behind.

They cling to this place

hiding in the lichen of shadows that

grows in the corners.

I found the indian on a shelf

locked in a war of plastic attrition.

I brought him into the kitchen

to remember things that were never

forgotten.

Dust is the paint of memory

and I cleaned the Indian

so that he might be a fresh canvas.

But the indian still smells of memory

and memory smells like cigars.