MEMENTUM

Where once there was a
Bank-machine vestibule
That saw little action and
Occasionally hosted a
Harmless homeless person,
There has been for years a
Faux-French boulangerie,
Beloved and frequented
By those with the dough.

How long ago the switch
Occurred my domestic partner
And I can’t remember, but
It was long enough that
Lots of our neighbors no
Doubt don’t know what
Else existed at the spot.
So it goes. The elderly
Might have more info.

Live long enough and you
Get everything, Nana said.
Along the way to enough
You lose things too, some
Of which you never knew,
Others you forget just what
That was all about or where
Or when or who you were
At any particular time.

What is the point at which
Legacy leaves no noticeable
Traces, and finding the past
Inhabitants would mean
Venturing into an archive,
Scouring city tax records,
That sort of thing, and what
Would be the worth of such
Arcane facts, given flux?

In this bamboo chair in this
Corner of this tranquil room I
See Cafe Les Frenchies,
Monitor the comings and
Goings there, recall how
Different that corner looked
And felt when we moved here,
And inscribe these moments
In this morning’s set of lines.