if i had another fifty years

once out into the world.

the ink

dried.

the book finished,

i shake my head and

worry.

there's not a rhyme

i wouldn't change,

a comma

or word i wouldn't remove

if i had more time.

say another fifty

years or so

with a blue pencil

in hand.

sifting through the lines.

maybe then

i'd be finished,

maybe then

everything would be fine.