Lately
I’ve been thinking
About how people
Used to write
Letters.
They’d send them
Across the sea
And wait.
One month.
Three months.
Five?
But so much
Can happen in a week
Much less
A month.
We each have a clock
With an unknown.
Minutes that countdown,
minutes we’ve wasted.
An indefinite supply
Of a definite number.
Tell people
What you would write
If you knew
Something would happen
In the month you waited
For a reply.
We Aren’t Promised Tomorrow, But We Make Plans For It Anyway