next time.

by joyce sutphen

i'll know the names of all the birds

and flowers, and not only that, i'll

tell you the name of the piano player

i'm hearing right now on the kitchen

radio, but i won't be in the kitchen,

i'll be walking down a street in 

new york or london, about

to enter a coffee shop where people

are reading or working on their

laptops. they'll look up and smile.

next time i won't waste my heart

on anger; i won't care about

being right. i'll be willing to be

wrong about everything and to

concentrate on giving myself away.

next time, i'll rush up to people i love,

look into their eyes, and kiss them, quick.

i'll give everyone a poem i didn't write,

one specially chosen for that person.

they'll hold it up and see a new

world. we'll sing the morning in,

and i will keep in touch with friends, 

writing long letters when i wake from

a dream where they appear on the

orient express. "meet me in istanbul,"

i'll say, and they will.