It recedes like a glacier, this Time
withdrawing into the Artic past
the images from memory, and
these boxes of photos, the moraine
all we now can collect
like your certain memory
of a night at the QE2
a short skirt, a headache, a thirst
not at all like the photo
I snapped, or the one clicked in memory
where you are older than you feel
yet younger than I remember
and I had vows & children
and you felt sexy and ignored.
Now, as the glacier melts, I
begin to wonder who you were
who you thought we saw
in a loose blouse, leather
skirt, midnight tights, underwear
only you could recall.
We both went home alone, or
I know I did, what do you remember?