Matsuri II

Summer, always hot, ever

hotter, even as the sun sinks

from view. Walking up Orion's 

loud belt, deftly avoiding 

carefree children, the exhausted

nee-san, a too-young sarariiman.

The wistful night's tiptoe 

quietly creeping behind.

The smells of hot yakitori, 

vanillin twang of taiyaki pastries,

or oily karaage. 

Memories, hidden and held

strong and painful. Quiet and

distant, disappearing as time

crawls slowly forward.