If we had
but one day
to know a person,
and if everyone was good,
would the world be a better place—
for does not familiarity breed contempt?
If we could give life,
then separate for life,
knowing that life was in different,
but loving hands
for 6569 days,
could we live another day
to make another life?
If there were no husbands or wives—
if there was no sleeping with the same person twice,
would we sleep around less,
or even more?
Could we fall in love for a day,
only to have to go away?
If we never slept in the same house,
but had to go from one town to one city to the next
there wouldn’t be a smell in the world
to bring us back to such a place
that not one could name.
If we could never read the same book
or watch the same movie twice,
would we pay more attention?
For in a world such as this,
there would be neither building
no permanence of person or place,
for everyday would be a new chapter
marked by days—
not of progress,
but of making it to,
and making it through,
the next one.