Changing Times

In the future, I had a house.

Just a little one, but not my own.

It was a house I shared, a house I made,

of fluff and dreams on nights.

In the future, there was fun.

Nights in shorts and pizza-baked films,

Sweat on floors, gardens and poems,

Ovens and reticence. Pens and cake.

Not a castle in the air, but floating just the same,

Precarious, cotton-candy-smoke.

In the future, there was a resonance of the now,

faux marble floors hugged by burn mats,

tired hands on cheeks, cheeks on laps,

stolen legs, stiff from walks tucked away

in older lanes full of dust,

and memories older than that.

Better poem than this the future was,

Not perfect, but easier to read.

But times are a’changing, and

And wheels are a turning,

and the future’s been eaten by now.

 

 

– Anon

 

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