If I could build a bridge
to those places I needed to get,
but haven’t yet,
I’d surely, well I suppose,
build it of my burned up sunsets.
I’ve so many more of those than I do
the tomorrows and almost certain regrets.
My pile of brick and stone sundowns,
behind me stacked, dwarfs the pocketful
of remaining dawns I’ve packed.
So I’d be forced, upon
the last best spot I know, choose
where to rest the soles
of my soul’s shoes.
Would you, could you forgive
these wet clothes at the foot
of your bed arrayed, if, when I ran out
of every yesterday, despair-hollowed
tomorrow I paddled? I’d be grateful poet
and write my remaining days of love and life
and to your kind heart show it.
THIS is why I don’t write rhyming verse!