Prairie Poetry   
  After Salina

Never walk back into my life.
Observe the signs, desist,
or choose some other stray
walk into the past that
consists of other people.

I have forgotten you
along with the name for spoons
no longer used, like
dead fish named by children.
My dog means more than you
ever did.

Just keep going.
The West is that way, only
eight hours or so.
After Salina, the sky
opens like philosophy
and has much more to say
than I.

The past you seek is
named Amber.  She’s a
dental hygienist with a dog
and an ageing mother.
Once the dog dies,
try not to look back.

  Elisabeth Lee
  Copyright © 2006 Elisabeth Lee
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