Past Ripening

while the green fig waits

for its ripeness to arrive

I sit perched on my moments

tasting an over-ripeness

no longer palatable to my tongue

 

my yesterdays multiply behind me

as my tomorrows diminish underfoot

and each new moment

sits heavier on my bones

wears on my battered resolve

 

hobbling my faltering steps

toward oblivion

I want no more surprises

they have lost their luster

they have become

killer clowns

 

let me grasp

what shaky balance I can

as the last seeds disappear

into the cloying sweetness