A New Poem: If You’re Alive, It’s Not Too Late
At concourse G, gate seventeen,
My sweat and panting pleas
That obstacles were unforeseen
May have been fantasies
For all they cared of where I’d been.
The door was locked within.
“I waited at another gate,”
I pled. They said, “Too late.”
I wait, and weary, fall—hurled back
Through sluggish centuries—
Asleep. The roof of my poor shack
Unrhythmic’ly taps. These
Drops of rain suddenly unite
In weeks of raging night.
I linger, doubting. Then flail... Continue Reading