For shouts, smiles, tears,
I have only minutes to write
their poems,
push them into words,
fill the scrapbook of a day,
say to my soul,
pitched in a wastebasket,
sorry I had so little time for you.
Sorry most of what sang
in my heart,
must be discarded,
to stay on schedule.
If I was callous
it’s not without pain,
to tell you,
whatever you are,
whatever you said to me,
was beautiful without footnotes,
indescribably miraculous.
I’ll come back another time,
when I have time
to spend a perfect day,
to tell the world how dear it is,
how it kept me awake
with gratitude,
that I am having
the time of my life,
and everything I throw away,
I’ll retrieve,
and put it in a poem
where all my heart things stay,
never to be overlooked again,
or forgotten.