The photo albums with my past

Capture the lymphoblast

History of my family’s life.

They capture both the humble

And the celebratory between frames.

The future remains a crap game,

Each roll of the dice a random

Event. There’s no memorandum

Or trailer giving a peek of woulda

Shoulda, or maybe coulda.

The family biography of what

Has already happened is set

With the exception of a coronet

Or tiara for someone to wear when

They’re cast to be a wise man,

Or some king or queen of this or that.

What has happened to us in that past

We look at is really the only time

We really know. Tomorrow’s prime

Or ordinary moments are Ready, Set

But no Go; No. Not yet.