Getting Gone

As if we’d stirred a fire beneath our toes,

you merely say, “Be stuck no more”,

and dance, for all it’s worth. begins;

before it’s hard the concrete pours,

thick, like Sicilian soup:

Then out with this typewriter and its qwerty keys,

out those obsolescent cameras, rolls of film, slides you never saw,

a plethora of unplayable tapes, Gregorian sound.

The whole 20th Century shebang is getting gone.

You too, I guess,

and now there’s me,

haplessly cradling a basement of boxes from age thirteen,

their polyvinyled pages glued,

smothered by the years, and stained.

Now sacrifice

your mildewed diplomas to the flame.

Where, O where will our pilgrimage end?

We’ve been here so long.

And the fuel: It’s low.

It is hard to restart these engines of the heart