the bitter taste of childhood memories

salty and harsh like someone else’s tears

left on the pillow in a chance motel room

where once you stayed on a lonely trip

though not yours they end up in your mouth

jagged and broken on your tongue

and you dream of digging holes in river sand

where the water line is just at the surface

you awaken the next day

drenched and the bed is damp

when you walk out the door to the car

you feel the wet grit on your shoes