Getting Over the
At first it just sat on its pages, crying at me.
The twentieth century let me discover it.
I loved it so much I tattooed a hundred-year calendar on my wrist.
Its space exploration and its acid trips are what I miss most,
and I want to go back even though the possibility of time travel was already
gone by its third decade.
At times I pity it, a century lost inside another one like a toy boat
floating in the pump room.
Almost no one goes in there.
Though the twentieth century is unlikely to be found again as I found
it a hundred years ago, it will be,
and when that happens I will become lost as the boat’s wake that
is, for a moment, indeed real
but is replaced then by another wake, similar but not the same—not
ever the same.
And I will disappear, by then made almost entirely of history, the way
history itself disappears leaving only its memory to be ruined by the
captains of a new, distracted age.