Memories

How often we think of
things past, like the
milk man who drove his
horse and buggy
down my street in
Chicago or the time
my friend got bit
by a cheetah.

Our lives seem to
accumulate
these events
some educational,
some fun,
and some we'd give anything
to erase from our memory bank.

Are we this
volume of stories
that fill our
minds and hearts,
or are we here, now,
listening to our
inner voice and
looking out the window
noticing every incident
that shaped every branch,
every bent browning blade
of grass, and every dent
in the cars and trucks
passing on the road?