THE NOTARY

We can exit modernity any way we want -  

as historians, futurians, anachronists -

with all our erudition and experience

gathered together like books

in a schoolboy’s satchel.

We can leave our tortoise shells by the roadside

while we search for the perfect tomorrow,

not realizing that our nearsightedness and libidos

are cargo we can’t help but carry

no matter where we go.

Maybe the way you feel right now

is the way I feel right now.

Wouldn’t that be the bomb.

It’s hard to find a haystack 

when all there is is

- never mind the needle - hay.

Ya know what I mean?

I guess what I’m trying to say is:

The rest of our lives happen

to nobody else but us.

We are the silhouettes on the horizon

waving semaphores like signalmen

trying to catch our own damn attention

before it’s too late, while the sun’s cameo,

like a Hitchcock, crosses the sky.

How about we agree now, 

with this moment as our notary,

not to be caught watching

the aforementioned fireball

dousing itself, day after day,

in a sea of complacency.

Let's not stage this scene as a sequel
framed by the same window, in the same room,
where we do nothing more than 
rifle through the thesaurus  of our minds

searching for new synonyms for the word sunset.