A poem about things left undone.
Perhaps you can relate. If not, don't worry, I'm not trapped in desolation. But you can bet I'm ready for Easter to show up.
Name it
No,
our unwanted companions
are not indifferent to our dreams.
Predatory is the right word
for this one pernicious power,
this enemy of rest.
A menacing foreman
pacing
behind glass impenetrable,
whose attentions
sap my work of joy,
my joys of strength.
I suspect.
I regret.
It has diminished me.
The fear.
Is it a cruel exercise to imagine,
what I would have done
or who I would be
if I were enlarged instead by possibility?