Memory can be
seductive, perverted
little bugger. For most
part, nothing more
than simple tree hugger,
’til something grabs
its attention:
bit of scent wafting
through wood paneled
rooms, music played
just out of tune, or
flash of scant
sequined costumes.
Then it becomes bold,
parting dark cloak
at edges of forgetfulness.
Exposes itself, dangling
between present moments,
or rushes toward shadowy
stage of existence, undulating
against pole of time, doing
bump and grind dance
of remembrance.
Long to turn face away
from shameless display,
ignore it, but find myself
caught behind thrice-braided
cord of scent, sight, and sound,
sometimes held captive for hours,
fascinated, yes even envious,
of moves this body
can no longer make,
yet remembers. Slides
back in time with present
mind, to solo bedroom,
wood-paneled walls
swaying with smoky
shadows, bits of light
from Tiffany lamp,
moving as I moved alone
to rhythms of yet another era.
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