Transient Immortal Poem by John F. McCullagh

Tommorrow is on my calendar
as is every day next week.
I have interviews, appointments,
Dinners at which I'll speak.

I'll make some time for family
and writing, I suppose.
I may find time to barbecue
and to launder my work clothes.

When evening comes I'll settle back
with a glass of Pinot noir.
I'm a transient immortal,
I'm on loan here from a star.

The future is a game;
against ourselves we play.
We act as if we still have left
forever and a day.

In truth we all are transients
For just this moment free.
Self observing stardust
poised t'wixt two eternities