Seems Like Yesterday

Here’s to remembrance

—as if a thought rent by time
could be remade in any sufficient way

gone’s gone,
or gone’s the stacked ephemera
in Nancy’s shop on State
its shelves replete with memorabilia
three doors from the pub
in which our ephemera’s
made each time we sit,
martini and wine between,
sometimes one or the other of us in a snit,
at others with open knowing love,
seeing that snits are absurd as wars
and that wars must not be waged
by lovers whose ephemera must be found
by tomorrow’s ardent browsers

with love intact, crisp, unfaded,
sure and good as the moments life allowed
—so present and clear it seems
not like yesterday, 
but now

Jim Culleny