By J. B. Hogan
Only three mattered, that he recalled,
yet he had let them go as easily as
you might toss away a broken cup,
pair of old shoes, piece of bad fruit.
It wasn’t as easy as it seemed,
but he had let each one go,
walked away, left them standing there.
There were reasons, logical justifications,
ego, ambition, an inviolate self
to protect and defend, but
only three mattered, three he failed,
three he sometimes remembered
he’d recklessly thrown away as if
they were life’s refuse and not life itself.
___
J. B. Hogan is a poet, fiction writer, and local historian. He has been published in a number of journals including the Blue Lake Review, Crack the Spine, Copperfield Review, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, Well Read Magazine, and Aphelion. His twelve books include Bar Harbor, Mexican Skies, Living Behind Time, Losing Cotton, The Apostate and, most recently, Forgotten Fayetteville and Washington County (local history). He lives in Fayetteville, Arkansas.