When I have the time to sit,
And watch a sunbeam hit the steam
That dances upward from my cup
Like incense in this morning’s liturgy,
I think of my roads, paths, plans,
Achievements I’ve yet to achieve,
Left legacies yet to leave,
And I am disappointed
That I cannot seem to simply be
Instead focused on what I will be,
                            eventually,
                            maybe.

Under fluorescent halos in sanctuary basements,
Faces framed by incense steam of swill coffee,
Drunks proclaim truth: wherever you go there you are.
You will always be you, no matter your far-off wishing star.

I am still stuck in Garden-grown grief,
Longing for a life I can never know,
A future (like the past) I’ll never meet.
I long to be a me that will never be,
Holding out for the time when everything
Rhymes or fits or works and the distance
Between now and finally when is reduced to nothing.
                            Eventually,
                            maybe,

When I have the time to sit,
I can rest and watch the steam rise
Instead of scheming or fighting to surmise
A purpose or a plan to become some other man,
Other than this one that sits and sees.
                            Eventually,
                            maybe.