Procrastinator Savant.

I will. I will. I will.

The syllables appeal, and roll
off the tongue like marbles
on an oil-slicked slope. Like
bare bottoms on a well-waxed
slippery slide.
I delight in the concept of later,
and find no gift in the present.
It is the open mail that arrived
an hour ago - unfulfilling and dull.
It cannot be imagined into something
more - not farfetched isoscoli of
love, nor a polished script pegged
to the stern black line as it's antithesis.
There's time a-plenty. Anything could
happen ten minutes from now.
Until then, I think it best to
toast the meantime with a crystal
glass, cherry-topped and guarded from
the rain.

I will. I will. I will.

Indubitably.
Eventually.
Ultimately.