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.
The New Music
1 February 2015