My ten-year-old self climbs
into her time machine,
aims for age twenty-four,
and over-shoots the mark.
In the ballpark still, but
landing with me, age eighty,
she pouts, wants to play
Monopoly, and eat Twinkies.
She hates maintenance,
floss, Waterpik, and brush,
wonders why she aches
and can’t sleep. Where are
the parties and dances
she’d imagined?
Her prince turns out
to be an ancient king.
She rails against kale
and cauliflower, longs for
grilled cheese, pot roast
and potatoes, convinces me
to buy Coke and Cheetos, bake
chocolate chip cookies.
I try to reform her, yet
yield—a bit too happily.
Though hooked on my iPhone,
she wants the time machine
to send her home to Mom,
Dad, and mean big sister.
She stares in disbelief, a disbelief
I share when I tell her
she’s lived eighty years, that
life is the time machine.
From Time Traveler (Penciled In, 2025)