Last Days

They are penultimate,
next to last
an almost end.

Each day is a cliff hanger...

a script whose final act

never comes.

It seems strange to cling to the next

and beg for the last,

a thanksgiving

quickly folded into an envelope marked

"past due".

How is it that the sun

rises with hope

and sets with disappointment

that another day will dawn?

He thinks me ungrateful

unable to wrap his arms

around the girth of this juxtaposition,

but it's really quite elementary.

The day is so beautiful

but how much more so

eternity.