I’ve got a memory like a box of puzzle pieces.
A box picked up in a secondhand store.
There are pieces missing.
Some of the pieces look like they’re from a different puzzle altogether.
Pieces of Chicago Skyline in a box of Banff National Park.
Some look like they’ve been taken to with a pair of scissors.
Anything to make them fit.
I go across the highway to the Airways Court, then nothing.
I go passed the Arctic Circle Drive-In and I’m at J.D.’s house.
He is working on his hotrod in space.
Whose father is laying on the couch, balancing a beer on his belly, puffing a cigar and telling us:”Don’t you boys ever start drinking or smoking, it’s a filthy habit”?
Over there is the Huntridge, where I took my mother to see 101 Dalmatians.
She embarrassed me by screaming:”Look Out!”
She was afraid the cartoon lorry was going to hit the cartoon pup.
There is this weird scene of a college student in the Trafalgar Restaurant in St. George.
He is eating mashed potatoes and gravy with his hands.
Was the rat-catcher’s name, Roy?
The kid at the Liberty Hotel who went into my room with gloves, a gunnysack and a flashlight.
It all seems to live in a dreamscape of wooden sidewalks and teetering buildings.
It looks like Popeye’s Sweetheaven or Japan’s Kamakura.
It’s a bookstore up an alley I can’t find.
It’s a kid’s Christmas town.
It comes to me when I’m asleep.
I trip over it when I’m awake.
It is just a box of puzzle pieces.
Puzzle pieces that only exists in the desert of my mind.