After James Wright
You might think,
one day,
in passive time
with the rhythm
of a hammock swinging—
as you blink
away the dispassionate
sky
and feel the raggedy
tops of tall grass blades
tickle the dangling
tips of your fingers—
the great poet
was right: I have wasted
my life. And yet,
standing between
a real feeling
and the truth
is the fact that
you never decided
or chose to.
And who knows—
that skinny divergence,
that small act
of defiance
might alter the future
as well as
the past—
as you oscillate
there in the breeze
killing time—
from deep
in the center of your story
on out,
one bleary vowel,
one rough syllable
at a time.
