From the Flowering Plumb
The one year I wore a watch
took forever. It was always
tomorrow anytime someone
made toast. Clouds threw
everything they had at us.
Each sun went down quick,
but left these freckles. Maybe
the shapes of the vapors
showed up in the papers.
Sunday's sad lattice of light
and shade. OK you can go
back to the past with all you
know now, but know everyone
else back there then now
knows, too. The advantage
was always this vantage, age,
invented vintage. Now
they're all back with what
they've been through, too.
The past insists it comes
to this, just not yet. Now
my dog and me watch
the park crew hang up
bunting on the outfield fence
for what must be a playoff
game, although it seems
a little early in the summer
to get sent home. It's good
to prepare for the past.
It's back there. All it wants
is in. But no one's going to
leave so it's got to wait.