Time Travel
by Mark Saba
I step out
as I’m obliged.
My two-year-old toddler
rides my back, holds my hand
as we cross the street.
Uncle Norman rides in my veins,
noting the red geraniums
and magenta potted profusion
that cascades to the ground
in my mother’s front yard.
She is here too, her innocence
marking every turn I take
in New York’s hub of blatant
sophistication. I count my homes—
those of my scattered youth
the sanctuary of our young family
the intermittent rest stops
of apartments and vacations.
They all trail me,
backdrops and foregrounds,
phantoms of color and grays
redistributing my moods
in spite of the flying present.
There’s only so much we can
handle, a wild mix of images
our eyes must accept
as they repeat in lonely intervals
like dreamcatchers that follow us
from one waking moment to the next.