The well of regret runs deep, clear, cold, hot, then high.

I’m a rock tossed into this endless pit, traveling through

the frigid zone at the speed of light, the molten center of the earth,

and China beyond that for all I’ve never accomplished,

then falling out into space, with Richard Branson and Jeff Bezos,

a low thousandaire among billionaires I’ll never become,

too late to start selling something out of my garage – which will be finished before I die –

or inventing the next electronic wonder leap in computer science there –

once it’s finished and I can get my car under cover from weather and theft –

so I can sit on the right side of Steve Jobs.

Someone needs to forgive me for slugging it along so lazy all these years,

no fire ever lit beneath my bottom, no foot applied there forcefully enough,

no whip cracked or finger pointing me forth and west,

until now we’ve run out of west and wilderness to conquer.

I’ve done the strike out part, for sure, but I’ve never conquered

nothing, noway, nohow.

It’s a bit of an age-privileged indulgence

to sit here on my complacent lifelong bottom

typing idle words for years, shedding silly sentiments

about all I’ve not got done in my precious time here,

but I wonder, is writing, which I’ve kept up at decent pace,

in a durable way for my spent time’s sake,

something that propels me well through water and fire and a Great Wall leap

into the highest reach of far outer space.

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