he said, summer time is when.
he said, summer is when he would change.
not serious enough at that moment.
perhaps,
lip service to those willing to listen.
a game he often in his life has played with himself.
it's not born of lies, but rather procrastination.
he said, those pictures i've been wanting to organize and put into an album.
he said, that poem in my head that i've been wanting to write.
announcing to himself loudly, come summer time, summer time is when i will.
midway through spring,
the cold winter still thawing,
his own bones still frozen.
he notices his health deteriorating, slowly but walking towards the finish line.
a cough that lingers, shortness of breath.
energy reserves on fumes, he unknowingly falls gravely ill.
he says once again to himself.
summer time,
come summer time i will see my doctor.
he says, come summer time i will organize those photos.
he says, come summer time i will write that poem.
and.....
summer time never comes for him.