I don’t think of myself as poet, but sometimes prose doesn’t fit the words the right way, like trying to solve a crossword with puzzle pieces.
And yet, and yet–the words still want to be said, the lines still want to be read.
If I were…
If I were an optimist, I would hope for the best. Tomorrow.
If I were a pessimist, I would give up and go home. Today.
If I were a Leo, I would blame my extraversion experience for saying all the wrong things aloud, while secretly being proud of myself for doing so.
If I were a Virgo, I would align the table settings neatly and fold all of our problems into perfect squares that fit in the pantry closet, without saying a word.
If I were a gypsy, I would love you but let you go, to be just you and then me. Free.
If I were a homebody I’d clean all the clocks telling time while waiting for you to come home. Someday.
If, if, if,
A thousand variations
Perhaps there were lives
Before this one
The same choices spread
The same failings
Making us impossible.
If, if, if.
But I am only me
And we are only we
While tomorrow is still in doubt
And yesterday’s grief
Still stains the sheets
If, if, if–