"Cut his teeth
On turquoise harmonicas,"
Blatantly spaced
For a heart-driven fool,
Blowing to play
Like a hopeless romantic,
Aimlessly placed
To be used as a tool.
Captured in a paper memory -
Old and tattered, like faded scars -
Like the worn and pointless notes
Once passed that mean nothing to us now.
The strangers in the photograph look
Like they're whispering in each other's ear:
"You are, you are, so good so far."
That's what we were, not who we are.
