my old address book
had fallen behind
the hall stand –
the spot where things
land on their way
into and out of,
and circle my life
and, there, by chance,
lifted from its hiding place,
the book – in dusty glory –
fell open in my hands
though, as I leafed through
the long ago penned pages
filled with names
I had forgotten, and houses
occupied by strangers . . .
names and streets and numbers,
that are of no consequence,
to me – now . . .
it seemed, in that moment,
perhaps, my time
might have been better spent
recording the addresses
of places I have known
that are familiar and welcoming
and receive me
affably, in melodic tones . . .
always.
photo: Oceanside – W. Bourke
©
2012 Wendy Bourke
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