04-29-2016, 12:45 PM
The Time Traveller’s PA
Inches over yellowed pictures
his calloused mechanic’s
ancient finger twitches—
a divining rod.
He doesn’t recognize his face at forty;
today he is twelve, asking for his mother
long gone.
This morning he woke me
at 4am, asking if I’d seen his watch— I could
have been kinder
but forgot myself.
I want to be warm,
a child's blanket
held tight against night and monsters
and new alphabets—
There’s a key beneath a Welcome Mat
for a girl eleven years dead—
now wild and terrified eyes search for me
but I’m not to be
found
in photographs,
or tea leaves
or tickle trunks—
not under the couch cushions.
I want to be kind,
a soft mirror
held tight against coarse light and mean shadows
to reflect enduring youth—
Most days he thinks he’s ninety
or nine,
thinks I’m nine too,
and maybe sees time for what it is.
Weren’t you thirteen just yesterday?
I would you were born at my wake.
I’m not OK with this.
I’m not OK.
Inches over yellowed pictures
his calloused mechanic’s
ancient finger twitches—
a divining rod.
He doesn’t recognize his face at forty;
today he is twelve, asking for his mother
long gone.
This morning he woke me
at 4am, asking if I’d seen his watch— I could
have been kinder
but forgot myself.
I want to be warm,
a child's blanket
held tight against night and monsters
and new alphabets—
There’s a key beneath a Welcome Mat
for a girl eleven years dead—
now wild and terrified eyes search for me
but I’m not to be
found
in photographs,
or tea leaves
or tickle trunks—
not under the couch cushions.
I want to be kind,
a soft mirror
held tight against coarse light and mean shadows
to reflect enduring youth—
Most days he thinks he’s ninety
or nine,
thinks I’m nine too,
and maybe sees time for what it is.
Weren’t you thirteen just yesterday?
I would you were born at my wake.
I’m not OK with this.
I’m not OK.