Even in the present,
I can sense nostalgia
gathering up everything
from cowbells to cheese
to distant snowcaps for further use.
It even sets aside,
for future laughter,
the waiter who struggled through
half the languages of Europe
before arriving at our mutual understanding.
And reminiscence saves pride of place
for my attempt at blowing on
that Alpine horn
or the way my face went purple
as I bit down on a similarly-hued sausage.
The beauty of Lake Lucerne
will compete for space
with the bed and breakfast chalet
and its fairy-tale-sized rooms,
lumpy mattress and
rock-hard backboard.
And the central heating,
that, like the desk clerk,
only works sometimes.
Nostalgia, of course,
has a soft spot for clocks and watches.
We go face to face
in shop windows
with the best in the world.
Each proudly proclaims the time now,
the time it will be someday.
