One at a Time

Now I read books that I had been saving for later.
Books from a time when I thought I'd live forever
and was concerned about growing bored.

Now I know even if there is a tomorrow,
even if it is a century long, it might not be enough
if I won’t stop postponing doing what I want.

The word postponing reminds me of a post office,
Bukowski I read often and like very much,
and a pony I never had but wanted at the age of five.

At that time I wasn’t sure what come first
ponies, little girls or their fathers.
I heard that many of them were lost.

I’d imagined a faraway town
where fathers making wrong turns
go in circles and ponies trot along.

I wondered how many of them
would return and bring sets of plastic blocks
and chocolate chess, and how many giant leaps
and small steps there were to catch up.

I thought that I might want to share my books
with one of them if he happend to come.

I also hoped that I'd meet Johann Sebastian Bach,
understand a thousand tongues, and grow roses.

Now I live one book at a time.
All organized from the floor to the ceiling
hard copies of old hopes and unread feelings,

I take them off the shelf one at a time.
I speak one foreign tongue, ride old horses,
and grow seven deer-bitten roses.

And father? Still did not come.