Next, Please

Always too eager for the future, we 
Pick up bad habits of expectancy.
Something is always approaching, every day 
Till then we say,

Watching from a bluff the tiny, clear,
Sparkling armada of promises draw near
How slow they are! And how much time they waste,
Refusing to make haste!

Yet still they leave us holding wretched stalks 
Of disappointment, for, though nothing balks 
Each big approach, leaning with brasswork prinked, 
Each rope distinct,

Flagged, and the figurehead with golden tits 
Arching our way, it never anchors, it's 
No sooner present than it turns to past
Right to the last

We think each one will heave to and unload 
All good into our lives, all we are owed 
For waiting so devoutly and so long 
But we are wrong:

Only one ship is seeking us, a black- 
Sailed unfamiliar, towing at her back 
A huge and birdless silence. In her wake 
No waters breed or break