The little tin whistle I yearn to play squeaks in my head warning that I have no time to learn and a tin whistle though slender is not easy. I think if I had a magic wrinkler for time I might learn, I remember characters that have, but I rethink this and remember I don’t want to win the lottery again. I am too good at too many things and have no time to enjoy their full round pleasure. I have no need for additional longing or extended guilt.
Print your fingers
I DON’T SEE HOW
This is the smallest of the fragile excuses I use
To keep from doing things to make me happy.
Petty in a way I would never be with others
I rake my desires and tiny hopes over the coals.
Tired platitudes are plated up as first serves
By my short order short sightedness
Protecting crusted over nonsense
And living the life of a lockout
Not even a squatter on the fringes of my dreams.
I stumble in my efforts
To see hope, joy or my purpose,
Ignoring the fact that I must step from the box
Before I can see the horizon or more.