i am a time traveler in my mind.
Crystal illusions on the waterfront,
Sail and red checkered table cloths.
The problem is i do not know
who i am at what time i am whomever i am.
Spackle of grey clouds allows the sun
to dart between, glare at the sea gulls flapping.
i keep these secrets with me,
not knowing who i am, when, and mostly why.
I cannot tell any one,
especially those who have come to know:
no political correctness here,
just concern for all of those,
just not me.
Old world harbor town gasping hard against
the new world up and coming.
Responsible resistance to secret revelation,
a yearning emptiness of sweetness.
It is a secret
Which i wrestle with like a bear
With no resolve as to how much, when or how
i should tell to whom;
…and the world goes round
While people do foolish things,
i among them.
old man nodding, smiling at the beauty,
the symmetry of it all
while the city structures loom
silhouettes of the times:
those which are,
those which never will be.
Smile Mr. Fitzgerald,
Another day for Gatsby has arrived.
October 12, 2006