The tacky road train passed the time for others,
while we sat in the window seats
at the Atlantis,
watching the sea from across the street,
and wishing for time to stop.

We came here despite the menu,
guided by our own traditions,
and the moments they create,
that make up a life.

There we are.
And I am seven of eight.
And I took a picture with my opening eyes,
that were showing me the cracks between the grains
with ever-increasing clarity,
like the tube in your teak-vaneered television,
that needed to warm up,
before the purple cast would give way
to truer colors,
as you would lay across your couch,
ready for the night's spaghetti western.

That picture,
still frozen in my mind,
gathering dust
and seeming more atmospheric with every passing day,
shall never yield
to new moments,
even if made in the same places.

But I do hope to collect others,
to place with them,
as life goes on.