Wading through traffic,
I keep watching the girl driving
the car behind me.
She has the full pre-cologen lips
late middle-aged women
pay dearly for,
more fake color on her cheeks
than she needs, a full-face
Her phone is attached to her hand,
at every intersection she strikes
each time offering a different angle
to the camera, smiling bigger
than she did for the lens. I can not
help but speculate whether she
sends the pics
out to the world or to an audience
of one, an act of vanity
Either way, I fear
she is heading
for a crash.
There are things
which remain perfect,
remember them as they were…
not what they become.
A Shadorma for the image at the Mag
It seems like yesterday,
and a long time ago.
It wasn’t so long so as to make
the date insignificant,
but long enough so as to no longer
interrupt our schedule.
Not long enough to erase the pain,
but far enough back to contain the tears.
Distant enough for a politician to forget the cause,
and a people to allow it.
A part of history where blame is now debated,
catalyst and facts contested,
criticism of the slayers scorned,
mere mention of motivation attacked.
Detached from current culture enough
to justify funding their allies
ignoring their evil
and negotiating with those who cheered.
Long enough ago to pretend it could never
Far enough removed not to occupy every thought,
but never so far as to make it forgivable