from the north/the low clouds float/
single-file/       heading south along
I-75 like a slow army of fluff

it’s late April and snow’s predicted for tonight

i want to be a weatherman in my next life/wrong
or right/you keep your job and there’s no recourse

when i look up/the sky slowly moves over me
and i envision the cloud soldiers in those gray transports
smoking a cigarette/drinking a glass of rainwater/
chewing on hail chips/joking around/saying prayers/pleas
to a silent god to let them live another day

isn’t that what we all want/?/another chance
to get it right or at least not screw it up so much

this time/i won’t turn my back
and walk away without a glance

this time/i’ll tell you exactly how i feel//
i’ll run into your arms and lift
you in the air/swing your legs around/
both of us laughing and kissing and collapsing
in the field

this time/i’ll realize everything///in some strange way///
                                                         is a gift

– David James

Author’s Note: The older I get, the more I want a second chance in life—to go back, knowing what I know now, and have a re-do. As my brother says, time is the new currency, and he’s right. Why does it take so long to learn this lesson?