the bespoke suit

I have put off today
for so many years, tomorrow
holds decades of overflow
of things that I know
I could easily do,
and still could easily hold
much more.
At some point
I might have to let it go,

like all of the clothes you've kept
too long, against the occasions
they once were perfect for,

and concentrate on what I actually
want to do, and get done. Eventually,
though, I might have to admit -

I'm reasonably sure there isn't enough
of that,
to fit the shape of the life
that hangs ahead. Perhaps

I'll gain weight, or smoke
some more,
or drink myself in

to oblivion.
I'd probably fit then,

but I can't be sure.

I hope I look good
by the time people care
I'm dead, or maybe

a little before.