Future Perfect

I walked the old street last night,
finding your front steps
now claimed by other lovers

and saw them in shadow light,
knowing that such times
are youthful, frantic moments

when the future lies distant
and reminiscence
is a comfort still unknown.

Time Lapse

Should they call me sentimental
for riding by your old place
to see the steps where you waited
for me on long ago dates
when I’d borrowed my dad’s Plymouth
as he always had allowed?

Should they call me sentimental
for thinking now about then
about your laugh, about your eyes
and those splendid, youthful days,
those visions cast in shadow light
from sunshine memories distilled?

Should they call me sentimental
for going by and slowing,
sensing strangers in your old room
where we sneaked from time to time
and pretended to be star crossed,
so happy in the moment?


Gramp’s old hunting shack,
a museum for beer cans,
decays by the pond,
sullenly permitting my inspection.

Exhaust fumes, oddly sweet,
as presaged Mom’s arrival,
soon through the back door,
having garaged her Mercury.

Summer sweetheart, hid in the attic
among photos at the beach,
where carousel songs
sang raucous in the sun.

Spun sugar bought by the river
turns the clock back
to a firemen’s fair
and bugle bands, marching.

Necessity requires letting go
of people and places
and pies and cookies
or whatever else was baking,

yet the old feelings
we sometimes revisit
are brought forth by simple cues,
and may have their purposes.

Phil Huffy writes early and often at his kitchen table, casting a wide net as to form and substance.