Howie Good

H o w i e  G o o d

T H E   F U T U R E   B E H I N D   U S 

You wait for a signal—something dramatic,

an angel being chased across the sky

by clanging sirens, for instance,

or the right brain being invaded by the left.

So far, nothing, not even a poorly sealed envelope

dribbling a suspicious white powder.

What can I say, love? The future is all behind us.

There’s only me and you and now,

and mother-of-pearl trim around the sound hole.