by Tim Philippart
Connect the dots of 19 moves to
discover a map to nowhere,
except here, which is not much,
in fact, nothing to attract anyone.
Along the way, wadded like
a fast food bag full of
blows the litter of life.
People and places tossed
from car windows and moving vans.
I miss all of them,
Even the memories drop,
to mark a path
that will not be retraced.
I, unenthusiastically, stay, until I don’t.
AUTHOR’S PHOTO CAPTION: When I Moved, I Never Unpacked.
NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR: On my, occasional, sullen days I, sometimes, think of the hollow spaces formed by the many moves in my life. I don’t want to feel bad so I toughen up by pretending not to care. This poem is the result of that.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Tim Philippart sold his business, retired to explore, write, and discover. He ghost blogs, writes poetry, nonfiction, and an occasional magazine piece. He loves writing and wishes he had not waited decades to pick up the pen. He sees baseball as a metaphor for….Oh, he’s sorry.