Beside the chair is a table too small for books,

books too small to read long enough,

in light too bright to hide the inconsistencies;

words too many to possibly live well.

 

Beside my memory is a tabloid soul

too flirtatious for dining room company,

pureed too finely to enjoy the chunks of life

strewn about the perimeters.

 

Beside the stumps in the yard

sleep the bones of last year’s plans,

the prickly needles fallen from the curious trees,

the crunch of old promises under feet, newly shorn.

 

Beside the evening, falling from the grace of day

lie mischievous hints of tomorrow, come too soon

but late enough to collect itself anew

in the hands of another.