The place could be New York
City or the Boston Common,
The Blue Hills of Milton,
Massachusetts. This place though
is the far South, Indian River.
A country of nowhere. And here I am
very old―the youngest man in town.
Anybody can come and dip in.
This morning it’s watching a family
by the river, young enough not to
know this day plain and simple will
be the keeper, one of a handful tossed
into a corner of photos to highlight
something. And never to know I was there too.
Enjoying the one moment
in somebody else’s life. And all
of my history, never even in that
snapshot, aging in the attic, inasmuch
as a mouse long gone chewed the cover
of the box.