I never gave my life to you
and now I wish I had, itís true.
I never let you all the way in.
But itís against ourselves we sin.
I was never able to let go.
I never opened up, although
we sit here at the breakfast table
correct, considerate, affable.
If I could, Iíd dynamite
the hell in which weíre so polite.
Perhaps, even now, itís not too late.
I almost speak, but hesitate.
Thereís always tomorrow. It can wait.
If you have any thoughts on this poem, Tom Vaughan would be
pleased to hear them.