Tuesday, April 24, 2007

You Are Almost There

I remember an assignment last year to write about a special place. I'd left it 'til the middle of the night. I'd already done three pages in verse about my perch on the the third-floor balcony, already tried writing something about London. I was doing something with Alex the next afternoon - getting in trouble, I think. I love wordplay. I wrote about the state of anticipation.

"It has unpredictable music in days weathermen will never attempt," it went. "It steps from long-awaited jet planes, waits beside me in carnival queues." It felt like missing the last step, like déjà vu. It made little sense at the time, hardly any now.

Time flies when you're looking forward to something, I thought just the other day. Don't they usually say, "Time flies when you're having fun"? I think I like it better my way.

I almost always do. I'm thinking I'm at my very best when I might get what I want. I know exactly how to make package-tracking numbers work. I can't help but manipulate personality tests. I'm endlessly flexible if I think you're going to be bending with me.

Don't be impatient. I'm preening and polishing, passing for something better until the day I really do it.


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