The Past Was Never the Present

My umbrella is keeping out the sunlight
and locking in the rain
on a gray Monday-morning-at-the-supermarket
can’t-find-what-you-want-
but-gotta-pick-something kind of day.

I told the girl at the bank I’d been turning
pages in my checkbook more than
pages in my journal.
She looked like a pinstripe wearing a jacket
with pinstripes on it.

Back in the day—and
I say ‘the day’
instead of 1992
because it makes me sound much more
expert on the matter—
I remember when children grew here instead of weeds
on babyfat summers
where we had permission to get in trouble.

We commit each day to memory with sunshine
as the present clouds with darker shades we
can’t see through behind yesterday’s sunglasses.

I imagine somehow the Now and Then must be
two separate entities
which have never met. It makes no sense
that the past lives a vibrant existence
between the goalposts of my mind
while today seems a still frame photograph
in black & white.