As the Pram Rolls Full Circle

Lately I have meditated on clarity in an effort to conjure specific memories. I have purposefully attempted to attach sights, sounds and smells to each so that they become vivid.

The result of one such attempt is a poem that I wrote and posted this weekend called The Pram. For illustration, I added a stock photo that looked as similar to the one I recalled as I could find.

I received an email from my mom (who read the poem) with this photo attached.

Snoozing on the porch

This is me in the pram.

I remembered.

Mind blown.

Edge of Town

On the edge of town
Transient visitors drift
Naloxone in pocket
Idly awaiting a bus
On which to vanish

A dealer in relief
Peers from within a
Darkened
Dilapidated
Rooming house
Efficiency
Where worn blankets
Sub for curtains

Concerned only with
One transaction
Distanced
From puppeteers
Who hide behind
Gated walls
Tight security
Quietly surveilled exits

While they play
On stylish paddocks
Sipping expensive champagne
Surrounded by beauty
Built from hollowed
Lives

Souls counted as
Useless
Wasted
Unworthy

True
“Nothing Good Happens at the Edge of Town”