This would be a time capsule of me,
I’m talking me.
Not of the Western world circa 21st century
or even this particular zeitgeist extraordinaire.
To be unearthed in some distant space and time,
to disclose a definitive self-portrait
for the ones who follow.
I’d have to start with the coffee mug I drank from every morning for years
that reads Do No Harm But Take No Shit.
A box of Cheerios because I basically lived on them for 20 years.
My books of poetry, I know, predictable, but come on.
That is, if they still speak poetry.
Oh, and my drafts file on disk
if they still speak disk
because drafts sometimes speak louder than finished versions.
A vinyl 45 of I Want to be Bobby’s Girl protected by its original sturdy cardboard sleeve
to resurrect perfectly my teenaged longing skating on Saturday nights
inside freezing cold arenas praying underneath my breath
for someone to take my hand so we could go round together.
They’ll need my vintage Crossley Record Player too and can consider it my donation
to whatever brave new world they are in,
the inestimable value of which may, alas,
be entirely lost on them.
A black and white photo of me at six standing at the edge of a diving board
high above a crowded community swimming pool
because I felt the world was waiting for me then.
And it shows I wasn’t scared;
I wasn’t scared at all.