I used to cuddle
up close and rest my head on my father's big belly
listening to the sibilant mysteries that swished around in there.
He'd tap along to the music within or without him
and I his drum
complicated paradiddles along my arms
the antibodies of rhythm I was to absorb.
These days are so loud I rip out my hair along with the beat.
I may have one eyebrow and a hairball but god can I dance.
One and two and
Three and four and
The past is something far off and beautiful
like Venus or Mars
or better yet, Saturn.
It invites you to come and sit but you never can.
Even if you could make it that far, and without air,
what looks like it was built for you to rest upon
would fall out from beneath you like a desk chair
you'd plunge through strange gases and stones
coming apart and disappearing
through a trick door.
Better to just tap along
with the passage of time.
You read my blog.