July 9, 2020 — or so I think
A restless man on the brink
The calendar is stuck in neutral gear
Can’t believe it’s still the same year

In a contemplative mood today
Wondering what’s coming my way
Tomorrow is another day, I’m told
Maybe I’ll find that pot of gold

Thirty-seven years on this Earth
Always wondering what I’m worth
Optimism with a cautious breath
Any life is better than death

Working a job that pays the bills
It doesn’t offer any other thrills
I mostly have what I need
There’s no joy with greed

Yet, I often dream of being a writer
I know my words need to get tighter
Maybe I’ll settle for an anonymous poet
When the field is ready, it’s time to sow it

“Where am I?” is the question
Taking stock isn’t a bad suggestion
Am I in the right time, right place?
Or would I thrive in a different space?

No reason to complain
I’m not in any real pain
Things could be much worse
Like being in the back of a hearse.

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A poem by Jason S. Sullivan, 07-09-20