And somehow the years crept across the screen
Without me noticing, despite the birthdays,
The anniversaries, the birthings and buryings,
The small and large losses tossed my way,
The undeserved progress, pitifully slow.
I awake in my fifty-first year an old man,
A cold man, snakes in place of my veins.
And none can know the time that’s left
For me, for you, for any of us. . .
The fat black bus accelerates
And we lunge for the lashing straps,
Reflexes dulled from repetition,
Arms moving as if underwater
Or six feet underground.
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