A Little Souvenir

I'll send you a postcard when I get back.

When I snap back to reality

and my mind weighs anchor, processing

what my eyes, now living, thought folly

to before perceive. When I return 

from my frolic in the recesses

of my psyche, from plodding through 

forests of synapse and trenches of memory.

When I find the source of every thought—

those welcome, those intrusive—and glimpse,

for a moment, at those yet to barrel

through the axon queue.

I'll send you a postcard when I get back.

In an hour or so, or when I remember

to breathe, and my lungs wrest me from

the grip of unbridled recall.

From drifting lazily down my stream

of consciousness and peering into the waters,

rife with scenes of dead men's trifles,

each wave, in frightening crescendo, 

colliding with dissonance, into my vessel, 

now new and unscuttled.

I'll send you a postcard when I get back.

When I leave my teens, tweens, and worn-out

jeans behind again, and I recall

in the moment, that he (oh, precious boy) isn't

who I am, and that I wish (in vain)—so dearly

do I wish, and plead, and grieve, and yearn,

with dread and regret and woe ineffable

—he won't grow into who I was.

I'll send you a postcard, then.

I'll try not to forget. If I do,

forgive me.

It may be that I'm still out.

Still frolicking, yet drifting,

and I should only be a while.