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The Chances



What are the chances
that what you have to give
is what anyone wants to receive?

Or maybe a woman in Lisbon
is dying for the lack of it.
It's all so arbitrary and inefficient.

We spend our lives dreaming
of too much of what we don't get enough of.

We want love.
We get
if we are lucky
the memory of love.

A life spent trying
to sing figures up
from the determined,
destructive surf.

How did I develop
so few of the attributes
I aimed for?

Which is larger,
the Void of Potential
or the Null of the Impossible?

There are gaps in the obvious
that no one maps.

Do you believe
it is better to collapse
than to lapse?

All poems are written and copyrighted by Michael C. Rush.
None may be republished or repurposed without permission.