I remembered today,
For no particular reason at all
At least, not one that I can place,
Our little peach house on terrace drive
With its tall front windows and
Field-goal shaped tree
And that garbage can lid painted
With neon orange spray paint that I would
Throw a baseball at for hours,
Or what seemed like hours.
Until my arm got tired,
Or until I wanted sweet tea.
Then, we moved to a bigger, yellow house
That was newer and staler
And much grander.
At least, until the real estate market fell through.
I think peach is better than yellow.
Oh well, one thing about memories is that they are
At least, if you want the truth.
The other thing about memories
They know how to whisper too.
And sometimes, they do.