Not Tonight

I whisper my prayer in hope and in dread. Not today. Not tonight. When the stars are out. And the night air is as quiet and well-manned as a church pew on Monday morning. On such nights I lose time, but gain propriety. I am without peer. A broken watch that tics more intensely because it is damaged. On such nights I could touch eternity and never feel the weight of forever. It would be a shame for sorrow to intrude when the living is Gershwin easy and the light of a trillion worlds are spilt across the sky.

 I cross my fingers until they're blue. Not tonight. Not tomorrow. When the sun is warm. And the afternoon is still and lazy as an old hound dog sleeping on a pouch. On such afternoons I lose a step, but find flight. I am a string plucked or bowed. A single dissident note hanging in the air waiting for another. On such afternoons I can hear the entire symphony. It would be regrettable to experience regret when such a melodious phrase is just beginning and my ears are stuffed full of sunlight.

I repeat my mantra over and over. Not tomorrow. Or the next day. When life is packed with words. And witticisms present themselves to my mind like a rowdy boy at his principal's office. On such days I lose myself, but see possibilities. I am an active verb. A birthday banner lovingly draped from bare branched tree to tree. On such days I see the connections between to and fro. It would be tragic to leave the party when there are quips left unqipped and a perfectly good buffet is still waiting to be sampled.

I know in my heart death will come. Not next week. But some day. When time is out of joint. And the world is every bit as imperfect as it was on the day I first appeared. At such hours babies are born and old men pass away. I am no different than they. A haphazard collection of atoms and energies. At such hours people let go of life and so will I. It would be wondrous strange if I should leave without at least a prefatory protest against Sexton's sad bone and Dylan's dying of the light.

So, I whisper in hope and in dread. Not today. Not tonight. When the stars are out. And the night air is as quiet and well-manned as a church pew on Monday morning. On such nights I lose time, but gain propriety. I am without peer. A broken watch that tics more intensely because it is damaged. On such nights I could touch eternity and never feel the weight of forever. It would be a shame for sorrow to intrude when the living is Gershwin easy and the light of a trillion worlds are spilt across the sky. . .