What we’re seeking
Is not fixed in photographs.

It’s this:

The cackle of a mother’s laughter
As she leans across the sink,
Peeling carrots for the soup,
The sighs and whispers
Of a sultry summer night
Rising through the boardwalk slats
To be lost in the Midway din.

The smell of fresh croissants
At the copper-urned café
Where you linger over coffee,
One hand placed discreetly
On her knee.

The scent of steam
Floating on wet cobblestone
Of jasmine petals
Falling on her moonlit hair

The pressure of her palm
As she guides you gracefully
Across the dance floor,
The light grasp of a baby’s hand
Curled around your index finger,
The post-coital bliss
Of her warm, musky skin
Pressed against your chest,
The velvet feel of a dog’s back.

Where have they gone,
The sounds and smells and touch
That once held so much
Beauty and meaning?
All vanished in the ether
That surrounds our lives

But here,
In the Museum of Lost Sensations,
Everything has magically
Reappeared,
Cleaned up and showcased
Like the finest works of art.
Peruse them at your leisure
For the paltry price
Of one admission.
It’s valid for a lifetime.

(Originally published in River Poets Journal)