a poem by caitlin thomson
what we forget when we talk about forever
The past is a cloud, and like all clouds,
it must descend in the form of rain.
The past is a bookstore that went of business
and never got rented out again, the shelves still
standing empty a decade later.
The past is your hand on my thigh in Bao Hause,
the song playing on the speakers.
The past is a man in a trench coat standing on a street corner.
You never know if he’s a detective,
a businessman, or a streaker.
The past is an eviction notice on the door
of someone else’s apartment.
The past is eating in restaurants, and not thinking
about what invisible enemies the air might contain.
The past is a dial tone.
The past is lurking around the corner taking notes
for the future. Perhaps it is a detective after all.