Pickled Pennies in the Pantry
float through my wounded mind.
Fractured hearts and obtuse sentences
fill the sugar bowl of time.
A window stands before me
the paine is cracked and old.
The fridge is full of stories,
memories growing mold.
I'll see you in the morrow,
your face is frozen still.
Pickled pennies in the pantry,
no empty space left to fill.
©dhoward