It is not a remotely original insight
to say that all this looking forward,
to next week, the next check, the next
next thing accelerates us like a skydiver
going head first, arms at his sides.
But I suppose it's better than trying to
claw back up through the air, wishing
for last year, the year before, for what's
lost, or never really had, and what is
now, anyway, but the point where one
meets the other, and the wind whips past?
So I sit and watch the gate blow back
and forth, see where the neighbor's
Christmas light falls across our family bed,
watch my daughter's chest rise and fall,
see my wife frown in her sleep, and even as
I sit, that now slips away, and I'm already
missing it, looking forward to the next.