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Nostalgic for Now.

Garlic sauce from the two fifty kebab
makes its way through the paper bag
to collect in the bottom of the satchel
strapped to my shoulders.

Down the back streets on my grownup BMX.
I'm remembering all the old moves:
foot down to turn a corner,
swaying as I stand on the pedals.

I'm a self-powered projectile fueled
by two pubs and two bands.
No money changed hands over the bar,
but I'm high on something tonight.

I cut through the Edinburgh gardens,
past ghosts of Fitzroy full-backs,
riding by touch over asphalt
pushed aside by trees that got there first.

Casting double shadows under streetlights,
hearing the buzz of tyres
and the click of spokes
and the chunk of changing gears.

Through Piedimonte's carpark,
past places I could have had my first kiss.
Along freshly-minted footpath,
pulling leaves from the trees as I pass.

This night is a free game of pinball,
a fresh bagel, the smell of her skin,
an answering machine filled with good news,
dimples on the head of a Guinness.

I've forgotten my longing for things past.
They're gone. They were good. That's enough.
Tonight there's no need for "remember when?".
Tonight, I'm nostalgic for now.

© Adam Ford, 1997

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