How long did he think they’d last,
the gold teeth years when you’d eat Cornish hen
and dabble in consumer electronics,
matte-black and Japanese?
He learned about intake manifold gaskets and
engine coolant temperature sensors and
did not go to college and was satisfied in
knowing what it took.
Spools of magnetic tape rewinding,
the analgesic backward burbles of brooks.
He knows that those
boring, storied glory days
will concede their distance.
As if their easy luxury was a thing that could
in fact roll back:
An automatic mini-van door.
Also then, a thing learned about the sun:
(In the dark, when I was twelve )
it would die
and convulsing, eat the earth.
Did it keep me up, buddy David, thirteen, wise and wired, wondered?
I could see his eyes were on their toes,
darting around in the dark. Couldn’t actually see
but knew they were racing to put a back-up plan together.
Maybe we would fly to Alpha Centauri in a Lego spaceship.
It doesn’t come back.
The 1980’s, or this side of the sky.
I tremble for God’s arrival, he doesn’t come back either.