Photos on the Walls

All those pictures on the wall,

of family, friends and me,

smiling, laughing and having a ball,

frozen forever in the place to be.

But who’s to remember after it all?

Those pictures, framed, hung with care,

what will happen when I’m no longer there?

Who will hang them or put them somewhere?

After I’ve left this mortal coil and in heaven, I swear.

Will they know me better than my nom de guerre?

It struck me late on a Tuesday night,

as I sat, alone, in my dim apartment light,

that I’ve not a person to pass things to,

once my passage comes into view.

A morbid Tuesday thought, but true.

I’ve no children, no wife, no loving gal,

to pass on those items, to keep them special,

I shuddered to think of those pictures boxed away,

rotting in the dank dark or tossed in the alleyway,

with no reason to keep them or a place to stay.

My Tuesday night, in my bachelor pad,

a growing angst about feeling bad,

for being alone in such a crowded world,

and boxes of my pictures in my imagination swirled,

will not one person know how I endured?

I snorted and chuckled at my own sort of loathing,

an irrational thought, much ado about nothing.

No reason to fret or depressingly twist down a rabbit hole,

there’s still plenty of time, enough to make that goal.

Those photos will be saved and admired by some lovely soul.

I’ll add ever more photos to the wall,

smiles and laughs, growing families and all.

It’s be non-stop, for the eyes of everyone, rapt in awe,

of the life sort of lived, (in a 20 mile range) for Michael,

whose Minute is now conveniently resolved.