Hurry, don’t be late
I can’t hardly wait
I said to myself when we’re old
We’ll go dancing in the dark, walking through the park
And reminiscing — Graeham George Goble
Imagine us together
sitting at Starbuck’s drinking coffee
after 40 or so years
Our yes-yes recollection of events in that long-ago past.
Then, too, catching up on all that’s happened in the intervening years
Can you imagine that?
(signs aloha, Chris. Hits send.
Looks at undo button, hesitates, but doesn’t)
I can imagine that.
I think it would be fun, frankly,
but I have some distinct feeling that you wouldn’t enjoy it at all
Nostalgia doesn’t fit you,
It’s almost as if you don’t have a past,
that you wipe each day away clean
like a window washed,
making it crystal clear.
That you see ahead,
never looking over your shoulder,
your background story a blank page,
your book’s never written,
your life lived
but never lived at all
except in the future sense.
Via email you tell me what I pretty much expected,
You can’t meet me for coffee, and that’s it:
Chris, I’m sorry, but I don’t have time.
(End of transmission)
You are still the master author of the future
mistress of gentleness,
our play a kind of closure without end
It’s not very good. No it’s not very good at all.
No one either laughed or cried.
No, it wasn’t a great play,
the decisive kind,
where I nailed my entrance and exit.
And the in-between lacked any meat.
The parts where I speak and gesture,
I have to say.
It’s bad when the open, the wake, on one end,
and the close, the sleep, on the other,
are the best part of a piece:
That living part,
the conscious part,
which in this play
You see, Mary, I am still my best critic.
Note: Mary, write your line
Chris, I’m sorry, but I don’t have time
with a little more feeling.