by J. Randal Matheny © 2015
The past is a cold and distant place,
The mind a swirling fog;
Too many features lack a face,
And children miss their dog.
A hand without a muscle moves,
And loops play endlessly;
A snatch of lyrics, childish loves,
There monsters lurk beneath the bed,
There Elvis’ hips still shake,
And Tarzan swims in rivers red,
As Nessie plies her lake.
There wringer washers eat your fingers,
By hand is water drawn;
The dusty field of Sunday singers,
And hunters up before dawn.
The distant places wave me away,
Since whys were never enough;
I’d rather live my now — the present
Is made of firmer stuff.