They were just scraps of paper,
holding scraps of ideas,
written with scraps of zeros and ones.
As I have to you, you’ve become
a mass of scraps to me.
So many of my recollections of you
became separated, dispersed, lost,
like some mosaic uncovered in Pompeii.
We’re ancient history without context.
This observation will blow by you
like forgettable sidewalk flotsam,
a street-smeared wing of newsprint,
here, there, gone down the street.
That’s the way life goes, lifting,
sailing, crashing, lying dead there
in a puddle. But if you look at
more than the water, the pulpy memory,
the right light might reveal certain
reflections, shattered by Time’s
Ever-wind into scraps of an idealized
image of what might have been.
Historic, if you ever had a context.
Warmup poem for my next story a day effort. Names have been changed to protect my innocence.