Haste

There’s a title you keep withdrawing,

As haunted by change as anyone.

You start off determined to finish,

But what you manage isn’t nearly

A match for its intended flourish.

There’s a woman in front of a truck

On the sunny side of the highway

On a pleasant autumn afternoon,

And as you’re driven by where she stands,

You wonder how her life seems to her.

Is the breeze that stirs her bangs too hot?

Is she at all content with her day?

You want this poem to be titled Waste,

But that title would be such a waste.