If I could be anywhere in time right now it would be 17 December 1972.  I have my reasons. Man, 57. Box no. 1553. London Review of Books, Lonely Hearts Column

It is not because
the slipshod symmetry of numbers
casts a spell when balanced in each hand.

It is not because
I came of age in the paisley pause after the Beatles
staled, before the Pistols made me feel old at 23.

It is not because
the moon was fresh with footprints unaware they’d be the last
so all of space lay wrapped in newsprint underneath the tree.

It is not because
I prefer a Cold War on the warm to this tired,
warming world as hot wars cool.

It is not because
shrunken days would shortly swell out from the solstice by a week
with two leap seconds, the year’s inbreath at the future’s border.

It is not even because
I was young; or I remember; because she left me;
he died; because I am getting old; or I forget –

It was just a Sunday that the scribes snoozed through.
The smell of beef gravy.  Desert Island Disks.
A Lord’s Day pause from Christmas shopping.  Rain.



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