Diagnosis

I hear tomorrow’s footsteps 
moving toward today, 
as sure as I know yesterday is gone.

I hear words yet to be spoken, 
feel hearts before they’re broken, 
and watch as moonlight melts into the dawn.

Still my head is heavy 
with the thought that I must leave.
I’m not some stage magician 
with white doves up my sleeve.

A single life is what you get, 
just one to call your own.
And in spite of what preachers or poets say 
the time I have left is on loan.

© Paul Wittenberger, “An Assembly of Words” December 21, 2024