(by Joseph Stanton)
It is late; this chance may be our last.
Although we know we need much more than gas,
this opportunity must not slip past.
The narrow road ahead will not go fast;
it curves into a dark-forested mass
of trees. This chance may be our last.
The day is done; the last, long shadows cast.
Summer’s gone, and autumn’s seared the grass.
We know this seasoned hour will not last
and should not go unnoticed, overcast
by thoughts of things that never came to pass,
opportunities that slipped by in the past.
The Mobil pumps must be secured, locked fast.
The owner wonders if we will bypass
him here. He knows this chance may be our last.
His station will stay lighted till we’ve passed.
When he shuts down, the darkness will be vast.
It is late; this chance might be our last,
an opportunity we might decide to pass.