Future, Tense

Churning, something’s churning. Is that you,

Future, come to call? Knocking

at my door? Tickling

the glass? Let me in, let

me in. I’ve no hair on my chinny, chin, chin to

deny you entrance. You frighten me.

You’ve brought good, and

not so good. Horrendous, really.

That churning feels excited. It promises

something new, something

grand. But you’ve tricked me before,

fool me twice, and all that jazz.

You’ll get in, one way or another. I can

open the door, welcoming, give you

a plate of pasta, or some broccoli rabe.

I could try to bar the way, kick you and beat you back

but you’ll get in. You will, and then you’ll be vexed.

Are you set in stone? Or do I have some power

over you? A question Ages old, unanswerable. And yet–

eternally asked.

*

There is only Future. Present already

has one foot in the grave the moment

it comes to be, and there it goes,

Already gone, that present at the start of this page. In

the Past, past, always the past. Memorable, not

relivable. Gone. Out of reach. So, come on at me

I open the door. Welcome! Welcome!

Have some pasta!

Give it all you got. Maybe we’ll even be friends. And

if we’re not, it’s on you; I tried.

I even made you broccoli rabe.