Rose the Wanderer

even when i flee as far as the old country roads will take me

as i stop to catch my breath, hoping the distance will allow me to forget

i still find you amongst the strangest of places.

my Montecristo cigar tin, rusted at the hinges.

old photographs passed along by a mere acquaintance.

and now…

within the tweed suitcase in the closet of my mother’s house.

either venerate me or vacate my thoughts because this…

this i cannot handle.