"Their photos in color..."

Their photos in color seem especially futile.

In my mind, they come from a different era,

from the darkener shades of the friendly poodle,

as I move through memory by trial and error.

Some five hundred square feet to traverse in reverie,

kitchen to the left, where the smoke was twisting,

bottles on the fridge that I’d commit to memory,

(but in two years time, even they grew misty).

Second home of my childhood, where, conjoined,

we would watch cartoons as the hours drifted.

Time was fluid then, to a certain point,

then it sharply veered and the backdrop shifted.

Dictionary in hand, as I did my homework,

tears welled up inside, but the rift seemed bearable,

I somehow was confident that the trail homeward

and the one ahead moved along in parallel.

How naïve to think words or photographs

could transport us back, chasms overstepping,

where we’d find them all, over tea and laughs,

young as we are now, and immune from ebbing.