He was never concerned
with how things had been.
As the ash dangled over
the precipice of his fingers
his snore caught a chortle
emerging from dream's portal,
he spoke of future memories
dreams of retirement travels
that lingered in the closed-up
basement with second-hand smoke.
Rising from his recliner,
taking an angle from late night
broadcasts of Larry King
from a timezone six hours
behind the ticking clock,
the second hand counting down
his days left to pass.
He rarely spoke of the past,
always the impending soon
beyond misty Bavarian mornings
fantasied as our ancestral home
drinking the amber lager
that ran down in barrels
tapping out oompah, the opas
in pheasant feathers and caps
the frothy mugs and beards
in the shadow of the Alps.
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