It is always too late

It is always too late

To beg

With less than enough tea

In sympathy

To float a boat

Filled with the burning

Of what remains

Of goodbye

There is no return

For it has gone

The way of tomorrow

Which never comes

No matter how

We may pray

There is only now

Inhabiting the ghost

Of a yesterday

We can see as a gift

Without what was

There is never what is

Pull out a drawer

To find a memory

Fold it up, neatly

And put it back

It will be there

When you need it most

As a reminder

Of what you can become

When you remember

It is too late

For you to beg