Fond Memories

You speak to me of memories,
My youngest form
standing at a fence
Yelling “Pedal, pedal, pedal”
As the cyclists rode by on your dreams,
as if to tell me
that these thoughts are fond to you.
My youngest form
is black with forgotten troubles,
Like that day
You went outside
And never
Came
Back
in.
Are those fond memories,
too?