We carry our past like stones,
Some smooth to handle
We keep close at hand
in our pockets.
Some hard and pointed
we find in our shoes, when
dislodged by fate or chance
they dog our steps for a while
until they find a way into
some empty space
where we hope they will remain
forgotten while the bruises heal
and we palm the smooth ones
kept close at hand
finding solace, comfort
in those known textures
and wanting nothing else.
Those in our shoes chafe
If and when we move
If at all
Those in our pockets
Distract us from doing that
Which we would, could, should
Memories, like stones
Can weigh us down