The lost passport that
took you to Sri Lanka
is in the left breast pocket
of the famous blue raincoat
that you rarely wore.
The plane ticket that flew you
to the old empires of Europe
is tucked into the pages
of that novel
you cannot remember.
Your high school
senior portrait
lies among some
fallen leaves beneath
a Dakota sycamore.
The diary you never quite kept
is missing all its entries
from the months ending
in the letters b-e-r.
There is something lovely
yet disquieting in the
echo of steps
upon the cobblestone
of memory.
The knock unanswered
upon the door.
You are here.
You were there.
Now versus then.
Ever and after.
Foregone conclusions
never known before.
