I still have those red caps somewhere
claustrophobic in a dark shelf
ruing loss of innocence
and trying to decipher
burdens in different shapes
the owner carries now.
I still have a picture of the tree
lying in a junk drawer
envious of its glam successors
it knows that theworld is digital now
sepia tones created at a click
who cherishes vintage robustness?
I still feel the touch on my shoulder
warm and reassuring
but the arm is no longer there
replaced by a picture on the mantelpiece.
Plaited hair is a luxurious mane now
incubating tensions of the world