i tell her,
the one
before this one,
and after several others.
each
with defining moments,
children
and marriage, dogs
and yards
with white fences.
barbeques on weekends,
the car
in the driveway
being washed.
always something new
being carried
in, to hang upon a wall.
though some
are
vague years,
some lost,
with no significant history
other than
getting up
and going to work.
the thick fog of
survival years
living
in temporary digs,
at temporary jobs,
always with a pen and paper,
counting
the cost.
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