Not Yet

At the bottom of any bright glass you might hear a slow fizz;
       bubbles going flat, the air gone pfft and stale. You worry 

constantly about how much time is left— down the apex, 
       down the drain, careening grains of sand. You harrow 

every plot that's been handed to you; no good at improv,
       fake it till you make it. Or at least you try. Like kudzu 

grown wild, your sorrows would thicken given the slightest 
       helping hand. Instead, you sharpen drawing pencils, 

index the contents of notebooks (and also the refrigerator).   
       Just keep your head down nine to five, neuf à cinq;

keep your ducks in a row, your nose to the whetstone. Skip
       lactose-laced drinks and put in some daily cardio.

Mind over matter sometimes works (ha, like for an abecedarian).
       Never thought you'd get here, but here you are, madam.

O for days that promise endlessness outside the archival;
       plush nights before everyone is marched into the ark—

quartets playing in the background could render a long hajj
       reasonably pleasant. Send a scout to look for nuclei,    

seeds, and an island on which to engineer a new start. High
       tea at 4 after labor. Not yet time to pre-empt dying.

Use it or lose it, but mind what you choose says the bailiff.
       Vanquish the vapors, toggle letters to turn bad to bud.

When you do come to the end, it'll feel and taste like the end—
       Xanthic clouds and burned cities; time of the apocalyptic.

You're not quite there yet, though. Outside the tomb,  
       zest from citrus orchards still wafts up to the azotea.