Time Machine

for Kara

lately, there’s been talk at my house
of building a time machine:
my son has his theories
and though skeptical still
I’m starting to believe

when it’s finished, I’ll give you a call–
there will be no heady talk
of unfinished symphonies, books:
dreams freed like butterflies
through nets softened by years

rather, I’ll extend a simple invitation
to walk once again past the peacocks and zebras
of Croftboro Farms
miles down the winding, whispering
tree-canopied Camden Lane

we’ll enter that old Walmart plaza
light with childhood laughter
content, my sister
with nothing more
than a cold coke on a hot summer day.