Weeks rush to their inevitable ends, your life rushes to its inevitable end what
can possibly keep itself off the ledge how
are any of us supposed to be immortal?
I came here with scraps of paper and a dream outside rat races and yet
here we are don't we
all succumb to middle age after all?
I am more question marks than periods,
more commas and run-on sentences than
complete stops, than
finished thoughts,
but honey I am still
suitcases full of scraps, still
piles and jumbles and joys of words
age
hasn't taken any of that from me
age
doesn't actually take so much as give
if you look at it closely if you
count your pennies with an
open heart
the poet writes you from across the river
but you do not answer his pleas
You have your own poems
to dream,
you run to your own end and make
the journey the thing that's
inevitable.
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