Thurman P. Woodfork

BAGGAGE

One year out of twenty five – thirty five years gone –
Pursues, haunts and hangs on me so, won’t let me go.
Never a day goes by that some memory does not return
Unbidden, unwanted, waiting for an unguarded moment
To slither stealthily into my consciousness and coil there,
Smug, beady-eyed, coolly triumphant in all its odiousness.
Knowing that the blink of an eye or an angry headshake will
Again banish it to the darkness whence it came, but also knowing
That it can return at any moment my mind is idle… Any moment now.