he’ll wait just one more year
         and I can pay down those loans,
         clear out the attic,
         finish that afghan,
         locate just the right map.

If there aren’t any diving accidents,
or busted wells,
and the elections
         don’t get us all nuked;

If I finish this project by Friday
                                    and the clerk lets me use his tape;
                                    if it’s a quiet hour
                                    (if there is such a thing)
                                    and the postmark goes on by five…

If we don’t grow too wrinkled
or bitter
or blind,
or lose the keys
         or our hutzpah;

And if the seams where my heart has been too-many-times dropped
       don’t just up and collapse
       flatter than last year’s flat tire—

Then:
         we’ll all be in clover,
         Pure Clover!
         Big green
         really living it—

         smack in the middle,

                               open-eyed
                           like toads
                                in perfectly timed spring rain.