South For The Winter

I am the red eyes of a man in a photograph,

A square peg first introduced to a round hole.

I am abrasive like steel wool on dirty dishes,

The ottoman that Dick Van Dyke trips over,

A bear eating honey straight from the comb.

I am the sound of metal scraping against concrete,

A bowl of homemade guacamole with a hint of lime,

The place where conversation meets silence,

The brake drum from your first car.

I am the Eucalyptus tree that every koala bear hangs from,

Catching fireflies on warm August night.

I am afraid of what I may become,

Admiration mistook for mumbling.

I am the forgotten number twenty three,

The fireworks on Chinese New Year,

The itch on your back that you just can’t reach.