Slack Line

You crawl in through
the woodwork...
like a sentinel storm
creeping over the fields.
Raining down memories,
pounding flora and fauna
into muddled puddles
of yesterday's meals.
They've already been chewed.
Regurgitated morsels
that once appealed
to a youthful appetite
are not the same...
the second time around.
Not when years passed,
like chuck wagons
on a dusty cobbled road.
And the admission fee,
the one you never paid...
the one you threw away...
the one you tossed into
the breeze for someone else
to find?
It
is
dangling
on
a
slack
line
awaiting its remorse.