I stand

at the gate that squeaks

when it moves to meet

the rest of itself.

A viscous collision occurs

as metal meets metal and

flakes of rust are disturbed

in the force of the thrust.

I wait in the wind for the

memory man to find his wings

and bring the broken

songs he sings for us.

I recall last spring when

the squeaking gate squeaked

and my waiting ceased,

when I rushed to greet you,

I moved to meet you;

the rest of myself.

As he sings to the beat

of the squeak,

and the thrust

of metal on metal,

the flaking rust,

I think of us.