Dan asked

"Which box is your favorite?"
I said "The next one."

Not to be glib,
make him think I'm playing.
not to be wry
clever in the saying;
The truth arrives,
a fragment of thought
animates calm words:
The kind of life I've sought.

These things I build
puzzles I construe
like last week's Times
are only fresh when new.

Done, they lose
all luster in my eyes.
Ideas beckon
Satisfaction dies.

"They're fine!", some say
some others may agree
I'm thrilled to hear
of quality some see.

but if it's so
what difference does it make?
That chance is gone
there's chances more to take.

My hopes can't dwell
in any home but Now.
Reflection's grasp
can never help with how
this next one's shapes
and forms seek place,
align for eyes
in my current gambit's space

I guess the way
to formulate what's true,
to see it plain -
unexpurgated view:
I'm rushed away
in sprinting time's embrace
what's left behind
a remnant of the race.