Only annually are these returned to me;
Those afternoons framed in time.
The warm sun
Cutting cold February’s thin air,
Beaming through the windows
And igniting the room.
Art lined upon the grey brick,
The red carpet stretched out on the ground,
And placed those worn leather couches.

Evidence of Life outside echoes around,
Sounds from the stage,
And from the engines that roll by.
Yet the walls muffle it all,
And the space itself ignores the others.
The Evidence—a mere distraction
An illusion.

Those worn leather couches,
The cushions as soft and deep as
The memories they hold.
Do they remember them too?