This old! -
no wonder
I live more
in the Then
than the Now.
Now - so
elusive;
next - so
unlikely.
This old
has-been
knows better
than to complain -
just keep me
on standby,
ye powers that be.
I’m walking
now somewhat
steady, alert,
ready, expecting
the worst,
confident
the best
though past
lingers still
awhile on call
or unsummoned
flooding up
as if re-lived
old pains even
revalued
shames shifted
past shame
eclipsed strangely
by gratitude
to have lived
and survived
so long amid
sweets and sours
feasts and fasts
sunsets and some
winter dawns,
long summer days,
moon’s every phase.
This fine rain
brings back rains
finer. Those far-off
locomotives
calling now
summon the past
to re-enter places
as when new.
Passers-by glance
at an old man
holding himself in
without seeing how
he’s held together.
Stepping along,
that old, this old.
- All this I said to her
disapproving ear.
She said:
living in the present -
nothing’s
more important!
You don’t have
to be a has-been,
doting on
your past time.
Nostalgia!
such a weakness…
a weakening
pastime.
Memories make
a deceiving refuge,
hidey-holes
for misfits.
Yes, she added,
much of the past
we shared, good
to recall at times -
but here, now,
together, doesn’t
all this crowd
out all the rest?
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