Nostalgia doesn't give a shit what you're up to
at this very moment. She lounges in the corner
wrapped in a moss-colored afghan and comfortable silence,
poised.
It's sometimes hard not to catch her stare from the periphery
as you go about the bustling business of existence.
Always when you least expect it, she's there:
the scent of Murray's hair pomade or Ken Parker's voice
echoing sweetly from a passing radio
or the recognition of your mother's hands
as you casually gaze down at your own.
Her hands are busy weaving the ever-present longing
you cannot define yourself without, that helps you dig your heels in,
grounds you in the now.
But it is to no avail; the stronger she gets, the faster time hurls
us all forward towards an imagined future,
shapeless and unseen.
