Joseph Farley

No Promises

I can make you no promises that I can keep.
In a moment of need I’ll say anything.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow. That’s easiest to say.
Just put off any thought that might interfere
with the matter at hand.

With luck one of us will forget what was said,
or what was asked, most likely me,
but you could forget as well.

That depends on luck, or what we were drinking.
Neither is a sound reason for a bet.

I should keep all my promises, all of them,
in a box in the garage, hidden in plain sight 

along with the old car tires, the broken lawnmower, 
and the hundred pound bag or road salt
kept for rare days when it snows.

That’s the only way I can keep a promise,
but it would involve too much writing 
and rearranging the existing mess in the garage.

It would be better for both of us if I made no promises,
and you never tried to force me into being a liar.

This is a good night for what we are now.
Don’t say anything about tomorrow or the day after.

Such words would jinx the moment,
and we only have so many moments.
Maybe we need a box to save them in as well.

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