OLD
Dress, circa 1951. Wedding, 2020. Tulle and fitted bodice. Tea length. Punk black boots, laced up, pointed hat with farcical veil. Marriage in the backyard, clematis blooming, guests on livestream, officiant on virtual platform, docu-signed and verified certificate. Honeymoon in the attic.
NEW
Baby, born on rug beside couch. Punk black boots firmly on. Crouching mama, hidden birth. Balloons, gifted, ten feet away, swaying on the lawn. No need for inoculation. Socialization adapted and naturally selected out of the human genome.
BORROWED
House by the lake. No beach. Water level rising four inches per year. Staircase down cliff now a floating bridge to first sand bar. Bring your own padlocks. Remote housing (formerly vacation home) unsafe, carefree memories washed away with creeping tides. Childhood incomplete without kayaking attempt.
BLUE
Paint. A mural: facsimile of a dorm room, circa 2020. Virtual university, an occupation for the unemployable. Inoculated, but not immune. Resurgence. Gate left open. No matter. No one outside. Cities walled off, museums pristine with untouched, un-dusty art. Trees growing in sidewalk cracks, meadows lifting AstroTurf where faded lines of football fields once ran.
SIXPENCE IN THE SHOE
Punk black boots, unshined. Laces frayed. Soles worn thin. Shoes stuffed under bed, toes stuffed with notes to the future: Anyone out there?
