by G. H. Smith
The time has come to put away childish things.
You laugh, but when were we ever punctual?
Look, the ferry is engaged
in foreplay with the dock.
In light of all this rain,
the past is bankrupt,
which might be a plus.
I try to see myself in a room
surrounded by sticks of furniture.
That one’s a far cry
from Louis Quatorze;
the ottoman has lost its empire.
I miss above all the dogs,
whose antics drove me to distraction,
the way they’d stub their snouts
against the door, demanding to be let out,
then mere minutes later,
wanting in again.