the conditional

Say tomorrow doesn't come. 

Say the moon becomes an icy pit. 

Say the sweet-gum tree is petrified. 

Say the sun's a foul black tire fire. 

Say the owl's eyes are pinpricks. 

Say the raccoon's a hot tar stain. 

Say the shirt's plastic ditch-litter. 

Say the kitchen's a cow's corpse. 

Say we never get to see it: bright 

future, stuck like a bum star, never 

coming close, never dazzling. 

Say we never meet her. Never him. 

Say we spend our last moments staring 

at each other, hands knotted together,

clutching the dog, watching the sky burn. 

Say, It doesn't matter. Say, That would be 

enough. Say you'd still want this: us alive, 

right here, feeling lucky.

~ Ada Limón

with thanks again to Lisa

about this poem the author said,

"There is so much to worry about. 
All the time, so much worry. 
Here, I wanted to take all the worry as far out as I could 
and then stamp it out 
under the heavy black boot of love."