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.