DEFINITELY

Birthdays keep me changing

day by day into my final self-

but simplified.

No longer

occupied with titles, job

descriptions, honors, meetings

to attend, awards or trips

abroad, I’m back to who

I am.

I answer to my name

with or without the Mister.

Nothing’s unimportant now.

When faraway friends or former

students write me, I return

the courtesy by thanking them

by pen.

Knowing my wife’s

in pain, depressed, or wronged

lets nothing matter more

until she smiles.

Love makes

whatever’s threatening or risky

unignorable because finality

is always possible.

That leaves me

thoughtfully mortal.

For those

who have such thoughts, the fear

of loss exceeds the fear

of death itself.

Boasters

who say their love’s the sum

of numbered anniversaries have much

to learn.

For me it’s one

long, short day when sudden

jeopardies are lived with or through.

If we survive, we’re thankful

we were spared the worst.

Later

we seek assurance in religion

and philosophy but find no more

than ritual and contradiction.

And for the arts?

Even

the finest fail to go where

art returns us to ourselves.

Since novelty outsells perfection,

painters seem content to stipple,

splash, and spray.

Poems

appear as trick typography

or messages from pen-pals

to pen-pals or surface sociology

without imagination.

Dancing

is aerobics with an attitude….

Finding little that redeems

I live a life without

adornment with my chosen one

whose daily presence is a gift

a son, a daughter-in-law-

and-love and three grandchildren

growing up into themselves

so quickly that I’m always

in arrears on birthday counts.

The children smile and correct me.

I stand corrected.

And grateful.

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