Tiny bars of soap
Forty, fifty years old
From hotel rooms in Europe…
I prefer them,
Perhaps for their purity,
To liquid hand soap fresh from a bottle
That makes my hands smell
With a chemical
That brings only distraction.
They help me think of my brother
And his friend
And the opera circuit
And train rides across the country
Long before I got to San Francisco.
It's amazing how little routines can trigger memories hidden deep in a person's psyche. Another good read Peter.
Thanks you, Les, for visiting my poem and for your kind words.