the address book

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