Lake Road Poem by Peter Jones

You were holding history then:
long and so long ago:
the un-faced shops that nobody minded
holding to life merely by habit.
You fed the few that were not hungry,
in displaced trivial affections.

So the brave animus rang
changes of old familiars:
earnest in their story
but not knowing why.
And a cornet played Tiger Rag
through the open window
of an August evening.
In return you shed your skin.

All that remains is an old map
and something somebody once said.