H.G. Who?

“I’m going back in the time machine;
I’ll be right back,” my daughter hollers
from the backyard when it’s time
to set the table. I let her go
off into that world of minutes
cartwheeling backwards
and upside down into the oblivion
of imagination I once knew
in that past she’s hurtling toward.
I stay where the seconds click
toward pot roast and green beans,
which she’ll later leave on her plate,
off to visit the moon
or that strange new solar system
calling to be discovered.


This poem was previously published in Local News from Someplace Else.