It is the Memory Factory

As when liquid metal thuds
on granite or marble. A bump and
a smokey simmer, a wet hot drop.

Or when sunlight finds a crack
in the glass, and shimmers a
bit brighter than in the past.

When tired grasps clump
heavy glass onto bedside
table: surrender's sleep at last.

For every child's cracked smile,
bloodied wrist and knee
crying Dad! for a while.

For the bright partition of clouds.
For jungle air darked blue by the shade
of a billion teeming canopies.

Or the best part,
of kissers' first kiss
and first kisser's first.

Better still, lips plumped
puckered and pursed-
a perfect thirst to quench.

Of old laughter,
the playground of a child's mind
and decade designated memorabilia.

There it is