David James
for Herb Scott
A man’s body stops,
silent and still, and, if lucky,
he leaves behind memories
flashing in the minds of a few,
words lodged on the tongues
of those who knew him well.
His legacy, like a highway billboard,
rises briefly along the horizon
and is gone.
Life is a bird nesting in the apple tree out back;
it’s a stopped up drain;
it’s a half moon easing behind
the dark clouds.
Life flies around and offers a gift box
to some, a pail of needles to others.
Offers to a few a cold drink of water;
to others, a plateful of mud.
The world of what if gets caught
in the throat on a daily basis,
right next to the universe
of if only.
There’s one guarantee down here:
regret. And there’s
one regret:
to not have another chance.