Anticipation

Anticipation 

Approaching sunset now, the dawn

too many years behind. The night 

waits, lingering behind the evening star.

It was noon a mere while ago,

brightly shining with hope,

plans made with future surety,

more time than dreams to fill it.

Time spent seems but trumpery

when placed beside time remaining,

too much wastage, squandered

could haves, elusive promises.

Five or seven friends yet remain, 

a thousand cronies gone the way of fumes, 

still time for eight or nine, likely no more.

Poems have always seemed like 

words in flight, now more earthly,

too often murky, poets in high dudgeon,

even as they confuse sunset for the dawn.

Still, there’s work to do.

Also time to do it.

Living in the past yields little that is good,

mostly excuses, redrafted memories and

rust-pitted trophies. 

Future has a sense of promise, of mission,

though too many maybe’s as well. 

What’s left is now, 

today, this moment, as the sun sets, 

dawn and dark of night 

the same gift of opportunity, 

like a poem, 

somewhere between a dream and a nightmare.