In This Life
the blank inside old keys
locks misplaced
in the bright moon
we must allow ourselves
odd hats
and place signs
where they might be seen
by unknown family
sometimes the dance
is secret
like chipped pages
from obscure 1950s
magazines
things we barely notice
provide clues
but not everything fits
though it is hard to forget
the music of gone years
a face glimpsed once
in unlikely circumstance
or that pulpy
mildewed smell
by Jeff Weddle
from Poetry Feast, 7/11/19