here’s to remembrance
—as if a thought ripped by time
could be remade, gone’s gone.
but not-gone is the stacked ephemera
in Nancy’s shop on State,
shelves of memorabilia
three doors from the pub
in which fresh ephemera is made
each time we sit, martini and wine between,
sometimes one or the other of us in a snit,
at other times with love ajar,
knowing snits are as absurd as war
and that wars must not be waged
by lovers whose ephemera may be found
by future’s ardent browsers,
frayed love still intact,
sure and good as life allowed,
so present and clear it seems
not like yesterday,
but now
Jim Culleny
2/4/17
Blink 