1701

It's a long time coming, this going.
I still have Anthony's paint bucket
As a mystery phrase on my phone,
Along with a note that "we are slaves

To something we'll never understand."
All that was eight years ago and change,
Not a single piece of this sequence
Yet composed. The rain on the truck roof

Blows in from the lake of yesterdays.
There's a wheezy, squeezebox arrangement
Of the ballad of the privateer,
Largely unsuccessful Captain Kidd,

Hanged for crimes while better criminals,
Some named in the ballad, evaded
The noose and completely disappeared,
Playing on a file from my laptop.

My note had something to do with time.
I had stolen a seat on a plane.
No one ever really disappears
As everyone really disappears.