Miniature umbrella shadows face,
you shivered on the field
some time in the fuzzy past
 
and are shuffled together now 
in a pile on my desk,
Rhyme, reason vanished,

and irrelevant, since one moment later 
you may have been transformed 
by lightening or thunder or life.

Yet we drag around our past
in an every-lengthening caboose, 
forever needling through
our hopes for today.

What is the method for unleashing the old cars,
for choosing instead 
to watch each moment flicker past

unrelated, with no repeated story 
holding me down?
Let you go your way
and I mine?