The young must tell
their tales — their glories
and woe, the fractures all
before them and as they come.
Why shouldn’t they amass
such memoranda as to stumble
upon them interleaved between
the bills, hard debts, mortgages
and taxes, appliance manuals
for the broken things we bought
with our lives and discarded
as otherwise unworthy of repair.
Why shouldn’t they,
in the jaggedy cursive of youth,
not script a life until they’ve
come to the thought — that one
bleak and hemorrhaging line,
that such ambition, innocent
as it is, is not
to be exhumed.
Image: Jan Kahánek on Unsplash
Sweet and Bitter Greens 