Try as I might, I struggle to be in the moment.
“Present” is the patch of psychological geography
that whooshes by under my feet and over my head.
But what is a moment?
Does it have a time limit, an address?
Does it smell like the memory of a woman?
Is it made of two, three, or four dimensions?
If time is a river, are we rafting past
these moments where we see it coming
and then it’s gone? Or is it like the view
from a speeding car on the tree-lined interstate.
Behind each trunk, for the tiniest fraction
of a half-thought, we can see the colors
of the houses, the lives of other people,
just as they can see the sun flash
upon the window where we share that glimpse.
I am a simple man, one whose mind is fueled
by imagination, always moving, looking behind,
looking ahead, looking within, almost never
at this present, hardly ever slowing to grasp
this moment you and I share. Except, perhaps,
for those two commas that just braked us like
speed bumps. Or maybe for the coming period
upon which we share a mindful breath.
Here, I’m in the moment.
This is my Day 5 effort (and it was) in my poem-a-day trek through April. The prompt was for a “moment” poem. I regret that I am hardly ever “in the moment,” except perhaps while I am writing. And even then I am more than likely thinking about how much I’d like a beer right now. Or that the moles are back in the yard. Or that I should have, should be, wish I was (something, whatever) instead of dripping imaginary blood on this imaginary page from my wounded imagination .