Time machine

It’s simple, really:

open the door of the booth,

sit, strap myself in,

set the dial to whatever

year I wish, and travel,

backward or forward,

or backward and forward,

a real Dr. Who,

or a Dr. Whatever.

I consider.

For now,
the only time machine

I have going backward

is memory;

the only time machine

I have going forward

is hope.

It’s likely, I think,

that my memory surpasses

reality, a rose-colored

filter simultaneously

enhancing and obscuring.

And do I replace hope

with reality or its shadow,

like Scrooge who saw

the reality and choose

hope.

I consider the door

once again, the temptation

of the tree, and before

I walk away I padlock it

with a lock I cannot open.

Memory and hope will suffice.

Tweetspeak Poetry has a poetry prompt this week about time machines. Consider your own personal Tardis – or note – and visit the site to see what others are thinking.

Photography by Rostislav Kralik via Public Domain Pictures. Used with permission.