A slice of the sun is cutting into
The piece of my thigh that only I see
The slice of the sun is shining on
The piece of skin that’s seen by me
And the now-late afternoon
Is stretching into the past
Had a blast
But the slice of sun on my leg
Is like the bottom of a keg;
Reminds me to remember.
The bugs that circle in the dark
Don’t seem to have too much to say
What a day
But the cold stinging bite on my neck
Is my memories’ wreck;
Takes me out of that time.
Old wood-grained stairs
Greet me at the entrance
Of a humble house
Where I live, sequestered.