Fred Aiken Writing

it’s very public

well known, all over town, city, village, pueblo,

photographs snapped in haste

and left even quicker

as whispers billow through the sycamore’s cracked branches

snatching up little gossip

little tidbits,

floating sand of what never seems to be forgotten

or learned to be taken for granted

as cement paves the way, wave, whisked away like so many days

passing time spent spending little secrets

reaching through the crest of time still reeling forward

but it’s already known

and out in the world,

so please don’t fret

because we know

we get it