Written for: Red Wolf Poems #227, “Scene in the Office”
The man in his own comfortable chair is calm, re-assuring, non-threatening. He tells you to close your eyes, relax, relax. You think he sounds like the nice sort of rainy afternoon. He wants you to remember the past, and you do. Walking alongside the river of time he takes you farther back, and farther back. Even though you are certain this past life regression business is bunk, you recognize a face, understand the significance of the smell of smoke. You catch a glimpse of a dog, a flower, a tree. Nothing special. They feel like your own memories, these excerpts, though they aren’t. The man’s voice rustles like leaves, and you sit up and look around.
What do you see?
The man is tamping tobacco into a pipe.
Pungent wisps of white float through
the fake tulips in the black vase
on his desk–toward my face. There is
no trace of what I have experienced.
There is no notepad or pen
in his hands. He looks at me
expectantly, one eyebrow raised.
He is unfazed by my silence,
yet, I feel anxious about the missing
time. I look out the window
at trees blowing in the wind.
In the distance, a woman is calling