the wheel of my bike
hits a hole in the old road
rattling my bag
like a sack of old bones.
the day’s ample booty
makes me feel giddy
we scavenged so much
the bikes now feel heavy
but the clouds keep the sun
from its onerous heat
and the wind gives enough
to move on down the street
to search old stone walls
and piles of debris
for the past and the pieces
of the people by the sea
fragments of lives
lay atop and within
the walls made of stone
made of sweat, made by kin
bits of old plates
shards from a bowl
a pitcher’s large handle
what tales might they tell
what struggles, what triumphs
lives lost and loves gained
when these bits were once whole
was there joy, was there pain
some fragments so dear
you can see the repairs
did it break someone’s heart
when it ended up here
were they glad to be rid
of the once stylish tile
making way for the new
adding more to the pile
the strange looks we get
from the people who pass
as we dig through the garbage,
the rocks, and the glass
all most of them see
are scraps and old stones
what Kurt and I see
is the art in its bones
each fragment a part
of a tale to unfold
each remnant, each color
some new and some old
new life will soon rise
from these pirated parts
new days to be loved
old love to make art
Dog-eared Stories by anne celano frohna 