While sipping Beach House brutt the other day
I dreamed of mundane things and their beauty
My nefarious past drifted by on clouds
Like boats and bikes and stripy topped bathers
Of splish splashing children’s heavenly smiles.
My father’s picture in fair haired tight curls
hung over the doorway of Gran’s parlour
telling of his childhood just like mine; where
his father told him of his fathers time.
Their history unnerves me, their home is lost.
The wine lowered slowly, shortening the
rise of its bubbles the same way our time
for living is lessened with each passing
of the clock’s hand by twelve. I live in short
bursts of inspiration; champagne foaming
to be consumed by time’s lips, tounge and teeth.
My ancestors rejoice, their bain cast off
as I am swallowed; “fitting end for fools.”
late arrives to break my fearful mood
Its taste reminds me of days yet to live.
Chef’s specials waft into my deep revere
The wine has gone where temporal things go
swelling my stomach with its glowing buzz
because it does that for me when I dive
too deep into the past. I reach for
the strong coffee to quell the allergy
I have to my history and its faces
like asthma it takes away my breathing
unlike coffee, which hits me as a wish
granted by the genie of the future.
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