As It Ever Was

As children and as teenagers
It was brother Robert could take
Everything apart. Was also
The one able to put it all
Back together. Or, if needed,
Make something new and workable
From the pieces. Head bent, molars
Grinding slow, you could see one white
Patch of scalp among his dark curls
Where the old brown dog bit him once—
Probably still spot it under
The gray if he ever took off
His hat while bent over plumbing.
Me? Then, as now—a few screws loose.

About John MacKenzie

I'll mumble for ya. Poetry, plus most things quantifiable: science, neuroscience, memory, epistemology, baseball. And so on.
This entry was posted in Art is lies, Art is theft, Autobiographical, Cliches, Consciousness, Cryptomnesia, Epistemology, John MacKenzie, John MacKenzie Poetry, Memory, New poems, Poem tweets, Poetry, Sonnet, South Shore, The Brain, Time, Tropes and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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