I.
They sit in the subway with dull impatience,
eyes flicking up a little to count another stop gone by.
But in the next car over a child or a tourist
has her face turned to the glass
to watch the tunnel go—and go—
she trips because she won’t hold on for safety;
she sways because she wants to learn to tango
in the unsteady arms of the underground.
Ah, the end of the line: at last they know they’ve made it.
They made it to the end of the line.
And they’ve missed all the glory
that was theirs along the way.
II.
Never give your dreams a destination.
They made worry for obsessing over outcomes
because they knew that dreaming wouldn’t do the job.
It was worry that said that your today must live
as a slave of your tomorrow.
Maps and moments have little in common.
You must dream for yourself a pile of knick-knacks
that don’t all have to go together
or happen at the same time.
Dream for yourself a wobbly direction
or a frayed piece of ribbon;
daydream about the kind of friend
you want to be in the meantime,
because the day you know where this whole thing is going
is the day you’re done living,
the day you’re done dreaming,
done jumping into surprises like puddles on the street.
Backyard Apricots 