A bag of holes, a monument
of empty hours we carry to the grave.
That morning drive to work,
the man on the street corner selling oranges,
the streetlamps going dim to dark,
we recall nothing.
Our days are highlighted
by who or what is served.
When we arrive safely to our destinations,
what is shared and remembered over cocktails
and dinner conversations
seems somehow significant enough
to override all those lost hours.
And who knows,
perhaps the man on the street corner
exists or doesn’t exist, an echo in time
reflected timeless in your rearview mirror.
Photo & Poem by