The Sunday Poem: 48

A number shy of fifty, count short of a century’s half.
An age where half the time remaining is decline.
A span of time not quite tomorrow, a batch of hours
Piled past a rising sun and past a moonlit night.

The gap of time to find a killer before he’s off scot free;
The span of time for ecstasy to filter through a brain.
“A day or two,” the time we cite when something needs
Some getting over, the “she’ll be better in” refrain.

Anticipation’s simplest metric. The continental States.
The year of Paul of Tarsus’ mission, when singing
visions Damascened his eyes. Two even pair of dozens,
a pile of potential chickens, a deck without the kings.

All numbers have their secrets; odd or even, prime or strange.
All figures have their seasons, and all periods have a range.