Mulch

Mulch

It seems impossible
that friends so perfect
should drift so far apart
after countless summers
spent swimming and swinging,
conquering the mulch pile
my mom always had for us,
its steam rising and warming
our bare feet on the driveway


How did those bonds
get ’barrowed off?
When were our feet
hosed clean of the
dirt and the weeds
that held us so close?
When did our fates, 
once so impossibly tied
together
come falling, irreparably,
apart?


We were young then
as we are now,
but our towns have changed
and our minds with them
The west calling one
the city the second
and the third still thrashing
in life’s heavy sway
with our mulch
and its maggots
so unbearably
far away

 

11.2.15 - 4.29.16