On It Not Being November 23rd Yet

The prospect is its own reward
(they say) – but I deny
the wait, as my wide eyes look toward
the evening I defy

the odds and fly to London: “then”?
As vivid and as clear
as “now”! – as “there” appends to “when”
and meshes into “here.”

Like a burst of wild confetti,
time refuses to align –
pushes, muscular and sweaty,
back: upends the old design –

balking at the thought that Future
has to happen last –
perfectly content to suture
Present to the Past;

miss me while I’m here, my pup –
greet me when I’m gone:
I’m in London! Bottom’s up! –
gone to bed at dawn.

.