We forgot to look up the hundred
years’ war, and you,
to send in the forms that would permit
resale of most anything, stale thoughts, ancient artifacts of one’s life,
as long as one pays to the state
its obligatory taxes. So now, we sit; listening to music;
all chores completely beyond us.
We are, like, complacently incompetent,
the two of us, enveloped in this unique, ineffable sense of Presence,
a quiet but overwhelming wave of Poignant Nostalgia
that laps, as if conscious, at our feet,
stealthily filling, gently obliterating, the places
we had previously stood, and making us forget
whatever it was that we had forgotten.