The Walk to Your Door Is Three Miles Long

The walk to your door is three miles long
from my front door
but not long enough for the
three thousand memories
—give or take a few hundred—
I have stashed between the trees,
eucalyptus and palm and more palm,
that lines the streets;
hidden behind the big metal public trash cans
painted blue who-knows and a half years ago;
taped behind park benches
and now shared with a big family of feline strays
the eldest of whom was once called Vanilla Tornado
because its owner could not decide,
seven at the time,
one of the two;
dropped along bicycle lanes by the
blue metal spread of the sea
fallen out of my pocket when I brake fast
so that a pedestrian and I don’t get
too intimate.

The walk to your door is three miles long
I know because I walked there again today
and picked up the memories I could find
—except a few I gave up to Tornado’s claws—
and because I wouldn’t walk again
by the trees,
the rusty trash cans,
the park benches,
the bicycle lanes,
the sea,
or the invisible pedestrians,
I counted my steps.

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