A Critical Sense Of Distance Poem by Maynard Hartman

I could see it just there, somewhere…I think.
Held in the distance, a ponderous thing, just out of reach.

An uncomfortable separation of time…and space.
I don’t want to close the breach…to that other place,
that distant destination I was supposed to seek.

For no matter where I find my stand,
the other thing is there, approaching
…like some marching band.

I guess I should have prepared a speech,
as one day I’m sure ill manage to reach,
the fanfare esplanade; a brutal success…I guess.

But now I’m tired, and I plan to stay, right here,
on this spot…along the way.
I am critically sure that if I stay, in some time
that distant thing might fade away,
then I won’t have that price to pay.

And the seasons will have advanced their pace,
as unavoidable lines flourish on my face.
But it won’t matter to me, I intend to stay right
on this spot…along the way.

Until the day when that distant thing comes to me to say, 'I’ve been waiting for you.
You’ve taken too long to make your way.'

Then I’ll look back…perhaps you’ll smile for me.

Then I’ll look back…and see, that life is now
…the distant thing away from me.