Poem: In Futures

If you believe, as I do, that a long life is but a string of moments . . . you may like this poem.

In Futures This point of balance is not a broad concept of a lifetime, or a piece to fit in the puzzle of my life Not even a period of time within which some semblance of order can or should be found That’s the lie, the false excuse of wandering, the rationalization for not being here But here is where I am, sitting at this keyboard and it all comes to this, if I have courage or, not even courage, but honesty and if not that, then a kind of recognition that this isn’t something done before dinner and prior to the theatre, but lived now Now is what there is and I’ve written of it before like a revelation and perhaps that’s true as well For all these years it seemed a kind of journey, All these activities, a step to somewhere and it didn’t matter where so much, as long as knowing now could be put off And so of course, I put it off, this most intimate look at who and what I am this very moment There was room, there was time and no need to end the sentence of my life, commas would do Period.  Enough.  I stand back and look to see this instant as a final photograph If you read these words, that photograph remains a still life of a man, this man at a keyboard, my finger poised above a letter, choosing, deciding, looking at who I’ve come to be Not tomorrow and not later in the day, not a piece but the whole puzzle, laid out in this moment I find success in that and little but excuse in futures that cause me to compare and let slide away, the me that is, with the me that might be An intellectual trick, the penalty that’s paid for this developed brain that writes and thinks Compares what is, with what could or still might be You’ll never catch a wild thing doing that and never find a squirrel who wishes to be a cat, or horses damning the windswept rain against which they turn their hunched quarters It’s only me and you who think we’ve earned a fireplace and hate the rain-cold moment, waiting for a bus I haven’t licked it yet, but you need to know I’m trying to put this love in some sort of order, this thrill of being cold and broke and worried-over To nod a bit in sunshine and not ruin it with clouds, feel a shivered cold, study it and smile, to make it mine, not thrown away in futures

This poem is included in Jim Freeman's poetry collection THE SMELL OF TWEED AND TOBACCO available here in print or as an e-Book in your favorite formats.