Next, Please

Always too eager for the future, we / Pick up bad habits of expectancy. / Something is always approaching; every day / Till then we say, // Watching from a bluff the tiny, clear, / Sparkling armada of promises draw near. / How slow they are! And how much time they waste, / Refusing to make haste! // Yet still they leave us holding wretched stalks / Of disappointment, for, though nothing balks / Each big approach, leaning with brasswork prinked, / Each rope distinct, // Flagged, and the figurehead with golden tits / Arching our way, it never anchors; it’s / No sooner present than it turns to past. / Right to the last // We think each one will heave to and unload / All good into our lives, all we are owed / For waiting so devoutly and so long. / But we are wrong: // Only one ship is seeking us, a black- / Sailed unfamiliar, towing at her back / A huge and birdless silence. In her wake / No waters breed or break.