Time Travel in an Age of Stasis

Our journey begins at the end of the world,
circa nineteen ninety
four.

A nine year old boy watches his mother
mourn,
her husband walk,
talking heads
on TV
forecasting shit storms.

He talks down
imaginary friends from running
away again,
and plays with
his siblings when they
ultimately refuse to
stay.

Before technological
advances that allowed him
a dance with
time travel,
watching daffodils
live seconds and
castles age a
century in
days,

even rain took
forever to
ripple on
pavement.

The story continues to suburbia,
circa the time we were
labelled
a generation of
entitlement by those who
raised us.

A boy of fourteen
told he’ll
be nothing if not
a dream gone to waste,
unwanted,
erased,
should you
deviate from the
almighty dollar.

But he forwards
another ten,
through lost loves and dead friends,
a believer in nothing born again;
every notebook
the years allowed
broken spines and
bent
covers in
boxes pushed under
single beds.

Ignoring the continuum of a minimum science,
this time-space defiance was his to upend,
but no wormhole
implored him,
nor was there
a universe
that remotely
impressed.

No era
resembled home,
most of it
window dressing for
learning to live with less.

But I’ve tried my best
to never
change a thing, to
prevent butterfly effects;
to leave the
smallest footprint
you’ve met

in this
age of stasis.

I’m just a boy from the pages
of ninety ninety
four,
plus twenty years
more I only
remember in terms of
stopgap arrivals.

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6 thoughts on “Time Travel in an Age of Stasis

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