The tobacco-scented shoebox holds memories like brogues.
Our correspondence still held by the envelopes of manila,
Everything in sepia and black & white like how I remembered.
Postcards back to the folks of how we rambled like rogues,
And the photographs of your smile that soothed like melting vanilla,
And the typewritten note where the affection was offered.
My now withered and wrinkly old hands puts the lid back
On the shoebox for another day. The cardboard time
Capsule will be opened again on another rainy afternoon,
The memories vivid and crystal and not a second undone.
Back under the bed goes the shoebox of us in our prime.
Now photos of us in our twilight in a box that once kept shoes.
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