Poetry 2014

This Will Be Forgotten

By: Trevor Richardson

Behind them it was open. Not wide, but still open. But an
option isn’t an option till you see it pass by the hallway you
thought you moved out of, but seem to just be moving
around. Never settling, cause it’s not staying yours. But
neither is a hexagon. Nor would I want it to be, I suppose,
but I still get shocked when I realize that it’s not sweet
potatoes on a dining room table, or chalk paint Exxon’s
from the more intentional of summer nights. Never bright
enough for one to notice unless you tend to stare at spoiled
drive-through-milk, or banana awnings with green arrows
that had helped point the way I would later take, the tear
drops. As I drop down and climb up again, I revel in
knowing that I can break stale air with just a few tree
branches and paint cans, waiting for the day my words will
come true.