Don't Get My Wrong, Future

Don't get me wrong, Future.
I like you just fine, except I'd like to keep my hands off.
You're too slick for my fingers to hold.
You escape me minute by minute
and just as I gain on you,
you slip into past.
As soon as I know what you're doing,
it seems you change or
you descend on me with your hard rapids.
Nevermind what I think.
Nevermind finding my destiny.

Maybe I should go up stream, go back in time,
and stop you at the mouth,
get you going in a different direction
before you ever reach me.
Had I control over you,
I would lead with my foot moving forward in dance
and your foot moving back.

But I can't.
It's just a slip of a dream
that we could dance in the river,
that we could make water jump at our heels,
make time bend just a little.

No, think I'll keep my distance,
stand back here and watch you
come rolling down the pike,
cutting corners as you go,
and just before you hit
I'll gesture-pose
I'll get in the right place
so we can fit just so,
your waters 'round my waist,
my hands over your eddies.

No thank you.
Think I'll leave well enough alone,
like a geologist looking for your tracks
after you've dried up,
hunting you down
after you've already gone.