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.