I Wonder How Many Ways There Are

He Thinks About Her, At This Moment, In Her House, A Few Thin Walls Away, Packing Her Life Into Boxes And Bags And He Wonders What Memories She Is Rediscovering, What Thoughts Are Catching In Her Mouth Like The Dust Blown From Unused Textbooks. He Wonders If She Has Buried Any Traces Of Herself Under Her Floorboards. He Wonders What Those Traces Would Be If She Had. And He Wonders Again Why He Thinks About Her So Much When He Knows So Little To Think About.

There Are Only These: Sparkling Eyes, Smudged Lipstick, Fading Starlight, The Crunching Of Feet On Gravel, Laughter, And A Slow Walk Home.

The Whole City Stopped - And This Is A Pause Worth Savouring, Because The World Will Soon Be Complicated Again.

It Takes A Lot Of Energy And Creativity To Make Such Screwed Up Lives Carry On. And The Kind Of Will People Have To Survive, Year After Year, Dealing With That Stuff, Is Weirdly Impressive.

If Nobody Speaks Of Remarkable Things, How Can They Be Called Remarkable?