And i meet my friends in a familiar place,
Hovering like a point in the void. Little box in space.
Outside trees shiver but the box just sits like a Rock in a river.
No problems here.
The sound of Smooth jazz, plays in real time.
And the father worries about control he never thought he'd lose.
And It's the year of poetry.
Something to hold on to,
The last beginning of the last.
As high school and hometowns drift into my past.
Soul solid, present here.
At least I found it again.
Talking and joking with familiar friends
And come next September I may never see them again.
Moment to moment,
This moment matters more than the matter in the box
but the moment makes the matter matter more.
The memory matters more when the moments gone
and the only matter sticks in the memory as the moment.
This box is more real than the worries of the father
thrown down to me from genes fuzed in the matter.
But the moment matters.
It is good.
And as the moment ends, and I depart from my friends
I know this box won't last forever.
Wood walls will warp with water
And the structure will shatter.
I'll be long gone and far from home.
Finding meaningful moments and a box of my own.