the form of a tempest


and sometimes 
it doesn’t rhyme 
but just seeps out 
like effluent 
washing over the cobbled streets 
of a town you’ve never been to 
and stumbling, burdened 
with the mannerisms 
of my father’s father’s 
and these feet 
that must walk 
and listening now 
as the roar of humanity approaches 
with it’s atavistic howl 
coming closer 
i draw these curtains 
to step back, barefootedly 
toward the shelter of a memory 
that is not mine 
but shared collectively 
and remembered 
by the whispering of the trees 
and falling asleep 
on an afternoon so long ago

Greg Alston is a gardener, cook, father and some other things, too.

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