The What Could Have Been Pail

nothing ever happens
twice.  the cosmic fact:
we come to life's stage
jazz musicians
improvising-
no chance to practice.
no moment a carbon copy,
no two days the same.

an hour my mind
mentioned your name-
a rose tossed
into my skull,
all hue and fragrance.
now, your name
is the morning star-
a rose?  a rose?
what is a rose?
is it a flower or
a platinum light?

each hour is pregnant
with embyotic moments-
too many aborted-
each carelessly tossed into the blood
of the what-could-have-been pail

with syllabic swoons
i enter the maternity ward-
a jazz obstetrician,
delivering bebop babies beneath
brilliant stars and roses-
today won't stay;
always gone tomorrow.