It is just a small thing,
a remark made
a long time ago,
but friends remembered:
“No time like the present.”
They laughed, not unkindly;
in the laugh you see a door
and the door opens and
then, you recall it yourself:
the moment when you realized
that while at that time
the moment seemed unique,
it was not —
it was a time like all the others —
another day in the books,
another day, another dollar;
all the chestnuts of speech
and memory lying fallow
under your feet. Once again,
you close your eyes and
time passes to
the next moment which feels
like all the others.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
onward,
T

What could be added to this?
If it isn’t already a perfect moment,
then nothing is — and that would be
perfect, wouldn’t it? And there you are.
If in speaking of perfection

you are trying to top yourself,
trying not to fall to a base level,
a sub-base level, it’s not working;
someone can always go one up on you —
say, “hold my beer” or “oh yeah…get this,”

and there you are, trivial and all alone.
So: what could you add and what could vanish?
It’s a perfect day for this type of exercise.
It’s a perfect day all around, except for
that nagging feeling that something’s not right.

Except — it never is? No matter the sunrise
and no matter the rain after dark, no matter
the single moment of perfection, the day is
spoiled and it’s probably your fault — and,
inevitably, the moment belongs to you.

What do you do next?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
onward,
T