Thank you, Editor Shirley Bell, for publishing this poem in Issue 37 of The Blue Nib.

Michael’s Memories

Michael’s at the locked door staring in the window beyond the glass, 

Waiting for the owner’s key to turn and bring him a smile of pages  

As he recalls the old bookstores of his youthful days. 

The glare of fluorescents reflecting off the lily whiteness of paper, 

The touch of supple leather and the smell of binding glue, 

The weight of multiple tomes upon his arms, 

Muscular in their day, 

The once muscular arms of Michael. 

Michael’s on the mountain’s high top watching flexible branches sway. 

Shadows play around him reminding of times around the campfires 

With friends telling genial and generous stories, 

Wearing vests for warmth as midnight draws near and upon still burning coals lie 

the vestiges of burned hot dogs and dripping marshmallows. 

The smell of coffee grounds and pine in his nose, 

Pine tree scent in his nose, 

The once juvenile nose of Michael. 

Micheal’s holding his guitar and strumming up and down the fretboard. 

Waiting for his fingers to imitate the ease of moving the strings. 

Remembering the first-rate songs of his yesterdays.

Familiar chords constructing glorious harmonies massaging the ears .

Musical satisfaction by means of limber digits, 

Nature’s physical gift once sent to his hands. 

Beauty produced by him, 

From once bending fingers of Michael.