Last weekend an old friend of my age
plunked his pill jar down on the brunch table
and proclaimed, astutely, that without
medical science he wouldn’t be there
to enjoy the free-range egg omelet
and crisped smoked bacon I served him.
Last night, thanks to Netflix, I took in two
noirs which I would never have been able, let
alone be allowed to see in the ringworm-ridden
movie houses of my boyhood. Planes, then,
had propellers. They flew just above the clouds.
Girls got pregnant. Boys fought with their fathers.
None of this makes any difference now — neither
last night nor this morning. No one uses cash or
thinks of change for phones. Things that mattered
then stayed off-stage. I need to remember to dim
the digital clock and make sure I haven’t
inadvertently set it for some wrong hour.