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16 January 2013
The fence between present and past
has many names.
It is called linear time, it is called
impossible, it is called death.
Driving home on a sunny afternoon,
I pass the turn-off
to Pottsville, where we used to live
and I dream of taking that road
back to our old life in our old home
and finding you there
waiting, smiling to welcome me in.
You would be at your computer
or maybe already cooking ...
we would hug.
But I drive on past that turn-off
knowing the road to the past is barred.
Across it is a high, invisible fence
I can't drive through.
I would find myself diverted, back
to the present in which you don't exist.
Submitted for Poets United's Verse First - Fence