Dear past:
We don’t have jetpacks.
We still walk, don’t hover,
there’s no button to press to pick your dreams,
and still only some dreams come true,
not all good.
Old men still have grey beards, if they have beards.
We can predict much and change little.
Some things we prolong.
Some days we are better, some days worse.
We have not finished the tower of Babel.
Cain still envies Esau, and Seth
tries to stay well out of it.
We haven’t stopped the fires burning,
though many are scorched and tired from the effort.
Heaven is still an apology away,
and most days that’s still a bridge too far.
Astroboy has not been born,
astroturf invades the street.
This is not quite how we imagined,
exactly how we’ve made it.
The Consolations of Writing 