The Time Machine


He didn’t have a name. He was just called
The Time Traveler, but I am sure that at sometime,
Someplace he had some name. One that was as fleeting
As the minutes and years he slid through in his machine,
Where he went into the age of the Morlochs and Eloi.
Or do I mean, when he went? Is traveling in time
Like closing your eyes and opening them and finding yourself
 In a different place? Or is it taking the D Train to a jazz club
That you read about in the Sunday Times?
Where is he now? When is he now?
We do not know. He could be anywhere. Anywhen.
Sipping tea in the ruins of Rome in 530 AD.
Or in Hyde Park, as we speak, standing on a soap box
Shouting down at the passersby that the end is nigh.


Editor’s Corner

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