sorry, sorry

I lollygagged about yesterday morning and noon, playing with my daughter Sage instead of working because she was being all extra-cute. Figured I'd do my writing in the afternoon... which, of course, is when an emergency rush editing job plopped into my lap.

Wouldn'tcha know it? The thing about freelancing is that it can be unpredictable like that. I could have turned it down, of course, but that might give my client the idea that (gasp!) someone else can actually do what I do for them. Can't have that! So, no see-ree-ous creative stuff until I've earned my pay. In the meantime, here's an old poem that's been moldering in my files:


The Numbers Game: Pantoum

You said you’d be 18 forever;
I smiled in amused condescension.
Now you’ve had the last laugh at last.
You always did like to confound expectations.

I smiled in amused condescension
when we met, and you claimed to be 14.
You always did like to confound expectations:
physically 20, mentally 60, eternally always a boy.

When we met and you claimed to be 14,
I was 17, and invincible.
Physically 20, mentally 60, eternally always a boy,
you must have felt it as well.

I was 17 and invincible.
For 5 minutes, it might have been lust.
You must have felt it as well—
in some things, you always knew better.

For 5 minutes, it might have been lust
instead of a lifetime of friendship.
In some things, you always knew better:
adulthood comes when it comes, all too soon.

Instead of a lifetime of friendship,
you went and died at age 27.
Adulthood comes when it comes, all too soon—
9 years past 18, but who’s counting?

You went and died at age 27;
now you’ve had the last laugh at last.
9 years past 18, but who’s counting?
You said you’d be 18 forever.