The telescope sits at the end of the pier,
bright with the promise of seeing far,
of bringing the distance into focus, into detail,
an utterly useless thing in the early morning fog.
But such is your need to know that you reach into your pocket
and pull out your quarter anyway,
willing to be blind, but not willing to try
About this poem
Pretty much every attempt to see what was coming next in my life has been wrong. But I still look.