One minute you’re a child, amazed

by the god-light leaking through clouds,

the next, dressed like an antiquarian

bookseller, you’re creeping the Facebook page

of the one who got away, recently deceased.

When you think of all the times you said,

“Just a sec,” you want them all back.

You’d stow them with your passport

and your father’s gold watch, recognition

for thirty years of service, hand-tooling

replacement parts for obsolete machines.

One day you’re keeping up with the new music,

the next, all your favourite singers are dead.

You’d pour out your pickle jar of moments

like a boy counting his piggybank spoils,

letting them sieve through your fingers,

the cellar-must of sweat and copper.