New Thing

New Thing

It is a new thing,
it is made of old parts,
with old tricks,
and an atomic longing,
for old configurations,
but it is new.

The new thing might be an archaeologist,
scraping for lost relics buried in the silt,
laid down over thousands of years,
eroded from the heartland,
and carried here,
by drops and rivulets,
then streams and rivers,
then lakes and oceans,
of drink.

The new thing might be a scientist or a lifeguard,
knowing that things come in waves,
and that you can’t fight the current,
until it becomes the past.

The old thing was a pitcher,
trying to throw a perfect game,
For the rest of its life.
This new thing doesn’t play baseball,
and searches for other ways,
to get filled up.

Maybe this new thing is a passenger;
it puts its own mask on first,
which suits it fine,
as it is unrecognizable to itself.
It’s companions,
shiny recent models,
will need help with theirs in the face of what’s to come;
the trial begins and it pleads guilty,
but it plans on a bit of grace,
as is finds its way to the other side.

The old thing was the object of affection,
and then not one.
It was a giver of things,
until there wasn’t enough left to exist.
The new thing is still empty,
and it gets very sad sometimes;
it remembers to keep things for itself.

Maybe this new thing is an hourglass,
With a lifetime of what it wants for its future In its past.
Every hunger satisfied with a memory.
Army rations.
So be it.

The new thing remembers to be hopeful,
about what it will turn out to be,
and knows that absence,
must be felt and not filled;
that grief can be a shelter;
an igloo cut from ice and snow.

Whatever else it might be,
this new thing is a mechanic,
surrounded by things,
broken beyond mending.
Except,
It hopes,
For love.