laughlines 

worn smooth by the babble

the chuckling familiar notes

then folded out once more 

like shared and scented laundry:

)avender sprigs; coffee tins

in high cupboards

used RVs

 

these textures live so close to me

a scrawl of shag carpets

finely raked

and gently oiled 

dutch paneling 

grasping lazily 

halfway up

half way

to the walls of childhood basements--

 

it's not real. 

 

it's not.

 

it's 

 

past tense feverfew 

these warm and dried bouquets 

clutched close

held fast 

against much colder truths and 

how I ache

to pass them along, uncrushed 

unmolested by the truth

but really it's just burial rites

for misshapen, unkempt youth.

 

it's sand and crosses 

sand

and shallow graves

 

but the laugh lines were real. 

the laugh lines .