Not Yet


Empty jars, egg cartons,
decades-old magazines,
bins of yarn
purchased and unused
await someday
in mom’s garage
like scraps of phrases
I once wrote and rejected
mingle in digital purgatory,
vague ideas of
significant insignificance
yearning for reincarnation.


When your grinning visage
hails my heart,
dreams soar unleashed.

Handsome out of my league waiter
succumbs to candied caresses
night of impassioned lips
teasing, tonguing sensitive nips
inspiring New Yorker worthy
poems of angsty love
read before cheering crowds
at Madison Square Garden
celebrating Pulitzer Prize winning novels
inspire the world
crush missiles into golf clubs
convert tanks into golf carts.

Impossibilities coalesce into not yets
under irrational dazzle
of a sunny afternoon
before north wind scatters
reality into stark January nights.

©2020 Kenneth W. Arthur