In step

it is said tritely
marches on

its cadence
precise as any
honor guard’s


At times time is
less a rhythmic beat
more the tuning
of a cheap guitar

my my dog
has – HAS
fleeeeas. has. fleas.

Time occasionally
marches on,
always finishes
the parade.

Gated communities

Never have I been further
from my youth
then when I returned to
the scene of it

places, people, things change
time, people, lives elapse

Going home is a
metaphor smorgasbord;
abandoned cabin overgrown
with woods, withered by age

dirt roads now paved
familiar sights still sturdy
though showing some age
roadside greasy spoons now
trendily featuring salads

locals speak of ‘amenities’

Places grow up, people change
or vice versa; who can tell?

Sedentary in its change
the place you knew as home
always will be, though you
can’t live there anymore.