Peeling. Time is eroding your sexy. At some point in this spiral, some fluid point over my shoulder you were YOU. Mad fans, lots of accolades, a kind of fame was bestowed. Somewhere back over a forgotten horizon, you stood hips and shoulders above contemporaries. Now though, in this present foam, these waves, these throngs of people don't put face to music. No recognition, just polite smiles as they keep moving toward work or play.
Cycles, we'll see your kind again. Just a different face, different lyrics, but the same song. You carried swishes to the beach like the other currents before you and were appreciated at the time. But time is a lazy foam, bubbles popping on shore, soon forgotten. Splashes are different, but I'll never forget that sound.
Photo: Corner of old building on 7th & L Sts NW, DC (Now painted over) with remains of a Tracy Chapman poster on wall taken with iPhone3Gs, Hipstamatic app (Buchhorst H1, Big Up)