Nights Of Summer

Nights of summer?
I don’t recall. Or I do,
but not perfectly. As if
they were coin-slotted
and I lacked a dime to complete
them. As if all I needed
was a dime.

Now it’s autumn
seven months since.
I don’t have a dime to my name.
As if all I needed
was ten cents, shiny ten cents,
to make myself whole, if ever
I was whole.

My left foot drags just a bit,
a wee bit. Memory drags
a touch more than a bit. As if
a dime would correct me, as if
I could get my foot to follow.
It’s more than a dime will buy.
It’s more memory than I’m
currently allowed.

I see islands across
blue water. My memory
sits on each island waving
to me to come get it. Not
frantic, not anything other than
resigned. As if a dime’s worth
of land was all I needed to walk
over the shallows and I’m
holding back.

I am holding back,
afraid of the depth
of the water that looks
so shallow and vivid.
As if a dime’s weight
would be enough
to drag me down —
a dime’s shiny, shallow weight.

Nights of fall are coming;
winter is closing me down;
I’m going to need more than a dime
to get over.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
onward,
T