Memories scatter, converge like leaves
Blown across windswept winter lawns,
Gathering in great heaps against
Weathered wooden fences—
Half-hiding remnants of days past.
Straws trapped in cracked lids,
Homework sheets torn from hands
Of children stepping off the bus,
Casually abandoned, unworthy
Of a chase.
A few stray cigarette butts—
Relics rarely seen these days,
Where knowledge flows like smoke
We once inhaled with careless ease
In far-off desert lands,
When lung cancer was a distant dream,
Not a looming fate—something
Young men like us didn’t worry about
In our line of work.
The Truth About Tigers 
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