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Penultimate Dummy

If this were the last time....
I know I'd love the violet-tinged hues
staining the dew-soaked petals of forget-me-nots in a wild,
unkempt, passionate garden of golden crysanthenums.
I'd appreciate the amber sunbeams casting warmth and shade
upon flat, yet peculiarly rebillious tarmac. I'd have more time to sit outside
in twilight, with tame bats winging past and dragonflies zigzagging the sky
with a buzz, seasonal.

And yet no time at all. All too soon, there'll be less to appreciate,
As trees turn grey and skeletal, looming in the background like a quiet breed
of macabre sentinels, swaying only slightly, only occasionally.
Or fiercely, as sleet and hail pound down upon sore heads and ripped umbrellas.
Terrific abyss in the solid structures,
Clinging to the sprig
as if there's someone with a ferry and a dock
and a secret password
to take me to the other side
as the wind howls
and the darkness consumes
a fiery consumption
and I fall asleep.

Bored.

Sweet irony, I suppose. That nothing's real,
And everything is. I don't wake up sometimes,
Or never have... would make more sense,
Except I remember.
I remember...

Yes, the sweet scent of pollen in the air and people sneezing, with damp grass
and not even caring about the polluting mud dripping off my left calf.
And drying. Spikes of wisping hair all over the place, catching brambles
as brambles catch those navy-purple, inky berries
that spout red blood upon the fingers and weep down creamy hands.
Splurting and bursting in sharp explosions
and poisonous, toxic.

A cautious rain and a generous sun,
Painting our canvasses,
We are done.
No work from us, but sit and wait
and watch and smell and hear
and touch
and experience,
There is no fear
except this may be our last,
Ah, we blame the past.

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