This is it. My last chance. If I screw up now...
As if a chance ever sat still for one moment.
Always throbbing. Always pulsing. Always
darting this way, that way, like a dragon fly.
Sometimes it's projected on a wall.
Or it's the narrowest of balance beams
daring me to walk across.
Or even a math problem, sitting there on
a piece of paper, crying out for my solution.
What to make of the indulgence of chance and happenstance.
The cold, steady boarding up on life unless I rush, shoot, unravel.
Multiplicity gone simplicity on me.
A one way incarceration in the hermitage of guilt.
So this is it. Grab. Announce. Replicate.
The reign of chance is almost over. Once gone,
I'm a fading clown whose funniest lines are jeers.
All carnival. No regeneration.
John Grey is an Australian-born poet. Recently published in International Poetry Review, Chrysalis and the science fiction anthology Futuredaze with work upcoming in Potomac Review, Sanskrit and Fox Cry Review.