A Past and Future Memoir

A Past and Future Memoir

Time travel is to leave now, what is,
go back to then, what was,
forth to hence, what will be.
Impossible then, thought he.
Paced his kitchen, like a nervous hen,
mulled over his plan once again.
Still, there was the experiment.
He could try.
At least his time machine
needed no wheels to move, wings to fly.
In his backyard, his strange contraption stood,
a high backed chair enthroned
in a mesh of metal, wire and wood.
Twelve old alarm clocks, second hand bought,
ticked different times among light bulbs,
levers and buttons on the control panel
he most originally wrought.
In the dull late afternoon, he sat in the chair,
pressed the green button to go.
Only the birds in the bush saw him vanish.
No one was to know he was not there.
Came back the day before he left,
so he could not prove he had been away.
He had acted adventurous and brave,
grown a white beard, looked older than Moses,
but he had no proof that he had travelled through time,
only that he needed a shave.
He had done it and he had done it alone.
He felt like a god on a mountain,
who had brought his hammer down
on a thunder stone.
He was told he would never amount to much,
the higher levels he would never touch,
his failure would fashion for him a crutch,
his house not a mansion, more like a rabbit hutch.
But now, content in his kitchen chair,
he supped his tea, knowing though his century
had ran out of reason and rhyme,
he could go back and forth,
journey out and on through time.
A Past and Future Memoir,
he would call his time travel log,
publish it as a work of science fiction,
for he knew that science fiction sells,
as it had done since the days
of Jules Verne and H.G. Wells.


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