it looks like iced tea bottle caps
(for as much as it confused the onlookers,
as we played 'hockey' on our wooden table;
back when they were sold in glass)
and it smells like those greasy fried noodles,
in styrofoam clamshells, and
the chemical air from the nail salon down the hall
in the old mall's foodcourt, which is now
a relic of the past; the noodle shop, probably haunted

it looks like the orange wrapper,
of a peanut and chocolate candy
(as much as mother wanted you to,
and as much as she dreaded that sugar rush;
you never did forget how much i loved those-)
that you'd bribe me with after school
so i would help you carry the groceries,
from your beat up pontiac sunfire
while your favourite rock n' roll blared from the radio

it looks like the butcher's peach paper
that kept your favourite meats and produce fresh,
(for as unhealthy as they were,
and for as much as you coveted your lunch;
you always shared it with me, after some pleading)
you really did love that deli, and those sausages
the shop of which is still there,
and i wonder if they remember you,
if they do, i hope it's with the same fondness as i.

and it looks like burnt banana bread, and dried out steaks
we ate it anyway, because it was always made with love,
pancakes on a sunday, and mint candies in your glove compartment,
and hair fading with age, and blue eyes, and a crooked grin-

then suddenly, everything i took for granted,
just like you, it was gone too soon.
and so nothing ever looked the same again.

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