There is a four-way intersection that lingers within my faded memories, bearing an overwhelming nostalgia, when I find myself lost in reveries; It floods with traffic under midday’s light, where a pet-shop resides down the west way, covered in brick filled windows muffling the panicked chirps, yaps, squeaks and cries of dismay; It floods with traffic under evening’s dark, outside a French restaurant where a child is surrounded by adults eating cheese and grapes for a dessert so strange and mild; It floods with traffic under late night’s stars, inside a car parked along a steep slope at an off-licence, slow falling into rush hour, the hand-brake unable to cope; One car passes through under midnight’s black, roads wide and empty on the hushed ride home from a restaurant, a shop, or a place I’ve forgotten within dull shades of chrome. A poor, unreliable memory remembers torn images from the past connecting at a crossroad never met except once that was long ago surpassed.