PAGE 119

My book, page 119,
is on the table.
Dirty dishes in the sink,
baked cake wrapped
in silver foil.

Sometimes I go through
the day, sudden flashbacks
filter my head;
warm rolls on a chilly night
forks en knives making music.


If you go away someday,
who will remember it for me?
If I document it,
who will read it someday?

I am not feeling sad,
at all.
I am just wondering,
where is my place in time?

1997.