THE SNAG
The only time I found myself at all interested
in the concept of a time machine
was when I first heard that baldness in a man
was traceable to his maternal grandfather.
I pictured myself stepping into the odd craft
with a vial of poison tucked into a pocket
and just in case, a newly sharpened kitchen knife.
Of course I had not thought this through very carefully
but even after I realized the drawback
of eradicating my own existence
not to mention the possible existence of my mother,
I came up with a better reason to travel back in time.
I pictured myself now setting the coordinates
for late 19th century
after I had hidden the machine behind a hedge
and located himself, the man I never knew,
we would enjoy several whiskeys and some talk
about the hard times and my strange-looking clothes
after which, with his permission of course
I would climb onto his lap
and rest my hand on the slope of his head
that dome which covered the troubled church of his mind
And was often covered in turn
by the dusty black hat he had earlier hung from a peg
in the wall.
(another by Billy Collins)
