Last week feels like a century ago. I wonder why? I’m not 100 years old and I’m certainly nowhere near it. OK well technically I’m a fifth of the way there, but that doesn’t mean I’m a fifth of the way to death, it means I’m a fifth of the way to something. But the something isn’t death. Something is a lot of things – not just one.
And let me tell you, there’s a lot of somethings heading my way. And no I don’t mean like in a global capitalism sense. Those things aren’t a stable job with career growth prospects or a picket fence as wide as my stomach, carrying my offspring to carry on the human species. No. I mean, moments. Moments are things. But they’re like butterflies. A butterfly has never landed on me, and whenever I see one go past I always just manage to glance a peak until it evaporates into the wind. Moments vanish like magic, and Time is a magicain whose show I was forced to watch, and they’re bloody arrogant about it. One moment they’re there, and in the next the Moment’s gone. Poof! Wow, how did they do that? I don’t know. And I still don’t know why last week feels like a century ago, but I’m pretty certain there’s a magician at the door.
I’d like to challenge you to write a poem that “talks.”