Could pre-crastination become a habit,
find itself a regular gig,
like its more professional cousin?
Could we put on for today
what we might have done tomorrow?
Could the horse be trained
to close the stable door himself
before being tempted to bolt?
Could we choose to celebrate Mercury
when it charges joyfully forward,
rather than bemoan it in retrograde?
Could I—possibly, sneakily—
have written this poem yesterday?
Could April next year perhaps begin tomorrow?
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