Resting on a nightstand
or buried beneath stacks of The New Yorker
is my unopened book. Its longish, cumbersome
size an Everest waiting to be scaled, its summit
the apex of achievement. At times I glance
at the closed volume and think
of friends unmet, conversations unheard,
tales unsaid. With one hand peeling back the cover
I peek at the preface and editorial note and sigh
with plaintive yearning for yesterday’s chances.
