The Moment that Comes After Was Once the Future

It will follow you 
as you walk with your hand
in your mother's down the hill,
the pines towering in mid-
afternoon heat, their spires 

waiting to be lit 
later by the darker fire 
shed by the sun going down:
that sense of the future
just waiting to pounce 

on the moment 
like the breath of a dog
snarling at your heels as you 
pass the gate to which 
its owner has tied it. 

It's only a simple 
errand: maybe to bring back 
butter and a loaf of bread. 
But she has put on a clean 
dress, a pair of black 

sling-back pumps, sprayed 
a scent along her wrists 
and neckline: something 
like Jean Patou or Chanel 
No. 5. Coming back, you look 

in the window of every store. 
She nods and smiles at the Indian 
shopkeepers, Mr. Bheroomull, 
Mr. Assandas; and the Chinese 
manager of the dry goods 

store. They bow back.
There are glass shelves 
in the front with alarm
clocks and wristwatches 
you need to wind every day

so they keep the correct 
time. There are notions and
bolts of cloth in every color. 
And the dog still chafes at his
chain as you make your way home.