A Flying Pony

a flying pony

there are quondam memories
few
and far between
I hoard them up like
precious treasures
secrets
hidden away in heavy carved wood chests
gloated over
in the long
watches of the night
but I will show them to you if
you would creep with me up
the creaky attic stairs into
the dusty sunlight of september
afternoons
filtered through grimy windowpanes
show you
the tattered photographs
read you
the fading letters
the timeworn remnants of another life
tell me
tell me it's more
than old magazine clippings
in a disintegrating shoebox
tell me the difference
between a memory
and a dream.