Civic Association

Years ago,
I entered through the back door
walked down halls to the front desk
Asked direction of a receptionist
Sat in a room
They shot a picture
My passport photo

Yesterday,
Having used up his broken words,
He blocked that back door
Entered through the front
Firing, without questions
Or answers
Raining fierce, moist terror like
The last downpour of spring.

How much of us remains
In the places we have been?

What part of us is of history?
How much do I carry
that could have been
Of him?
How much did he bear
That I might have borne
Or been broken by
The numbing burden
Only to borrow a friend's car
And the many tomorrows
Cut down like saplings before a hurricane.

© J BARRETT WOLF