until the garden hose and chamois sponge it clean.
If only memories could be vanquished
with a turn of the spicket, a touch of elbow grease.
Father bleeds into my mind's eye,
all indigo camel, jaundiced bottom shelf;
Mother's wheels grinding behind him,
all stink-eye pasty, acid tongued whiplash.
People say I have her nose and self pity;
The spitting image, but it matters little.
Dissolving ghostly bygones
into the present tense,
I breath a sigh of relief half restrained
and go about my day,
these remembrances pasted still to my tomorrows.
