The Before Picture

It’s complicated, my relationship status
with progress. I often prefer

the “before” picture. The future
is where I’m going only because

I have no choice, because time
moves in one direction, dragging

a bit of itself behind like meat.
An unseen hand keeps

tugging it—time’s rabbit leg,
time’s hunk of red venison—

just out of reach. Did I just describe
the future as bait? Am I strung

along? I know, when I arrive there,
it won’t be there. Won’t be that.

It’ll be now, the way it is
right now. And again. Refresh,

refresh, refresh. The befores
pile up behind me. It’s now again.