of hours sorting through
notes and letters and drawings
from the dusty letter box
where kind missives
presented to me . . . had ended up.
little blurts of my life passages,
put to paper, by my dearly beloveds –
quirky, hand spun, treasures,
that had lasted
much longer than spoken words
or the real moments that they pictured
a retrospective: that left me floating,
as the years of accolades
cascaded round me . . .
on a lumpy cloud
not, at all, comfortable
with the chorus of adoration that
fell, in selectively deceptive kudos,
from the doting chest.
though, it came to me that I had
. . . mostly . . . tried to do my best.
I glugged down a swallow of ice tea
and whispered, the enduring question: