Yard Sale of Thoughts

I’m no time machine.
You can’t hop on board me,
push levers, turn a few dials
speak a destination
and travel interstellar miles.

His eyes aren’t time machines.
You’ve lain low, tummy-crawled
those green fields before,
but those emeralds
don’t take prisoners of war.

Contrary to what he said,
his billowy bed sails
ain’t no balmy time machine.
Can’t twist the knob to
an isle of Naboombo dream.

Despite the design,
there’s no time machine
hatching in the nest of your mind;
no warm yoke awaiting you
in the center of tangled tissue.

Broken pieces form this rhyme,
a mosaic of memory shards,
shattered from our last time,
but my words aren’t wind chimes;
no, my verse can’t help you travel time.

Despite the doctor’s script,
injection track record,
poor pressure check or
plan to get us clean;
his treatment ain’t no time machine.

Taste the candied moments
of yesterday and before.
Sweets through a dime-store window–
recalled, refined, no more; today’s
never born again in this timeline.

Artwork: “Time Machine” By Drasko Klikovak