memento mori

The touch of a stone,
 when cool and smooth,
  can bring you back ,
     awake to  sounds of a
street you once knew, the smell
of cooking oil and
flowers, perfume,diesel and
  garlic and garbage.

  the heat of a woman's
      shoulder just beneath
the hovering palm of your
 hand, still glowing from
  the sun until you wake her
   with a smooth stroke and
     a kiss on her neck,
        can bring you back
to the first time you kissed
  her, knowing only what
       she likes to drink
and that it was dark and
 good outside.

   Oh well, when you are
old and your bones
  like to ache and argue like
    beggar children,
  the streets are all straight and
      dry and burn the eye
 When no one can imagine
   that fingernails once
     scratched you back,
      you will always have that stone
         that street , that shoulder and
             that woman.