When did we become antiquated chronicles,
quaint gray-scale images of times ago?
So new to me
those snapped frozen moments,
accompanied by giggled refrains
over long hair
bell bottoms striped in red, white and blue,
wildly floral, rayon shirts
and a toothless smile
illness of the living cowering in eye clefts,
genetic mile-markers on the road to decline.
Not my age–
in spite of the march of time.
We’re the Inuit and
their seal-hunting photos
sealed in obsolescence in their igloos,
icy tomes of time marched,
chuckling at the quaint mukluks.
and Matthew Brady’s gas-engorged corpses
littering cannibalistic fields;
cyclopean mounds of shriveled Hebrews
plowed into the earth,
Kodaks oozing eras into the inkiness.
Reluctantly joined to the eons in a
Decade-long Bataan march.
Shriveled points of reality,
cockeyed time engorged with
the last laugh of antecedent ages.