I mark the high days and the holidays
red-letter on the page;
fast-forward into memory,
prepare to be upstaged.
The envelopes I push against
so rapidly become
a wrap to keep me safe and warm
but soon enough I'll be undone.
And if, for instance, I had spent a lifetime
in the service of cleanliness and godliness
I'd still be washed up now.
My history doesn't make much sense,
no corner has been turned.
The future's brooding and immense
and everything I've learned
seems tiny in the scheme of things,
the reckoning's begun â??
I hold together what I can,
the stitches bound to come undone.
And, for example, if I'd spent a lifetime
in pursuit of miraculously common sense
I'd still feel stupid now.
I'm waiting on a final clue,
a final validation
of what I did, of what I hid,
of all I called my own.
Our high days and our holidays
are numbered, every one.
So quick the hours rush away
and everything we've left's undone.