72: Late Aubade by James Richardson

So what do you think, Life, it seemed pretty good to me,
though quiet, I guess, and unspectacular.
It’s been so long, I don’t know any more how these things go.
I don’t know what it means that we’ve had this time together.

I get that the coffee, the sunlight on glassware, the Sunday paper
and our studious lightness, not hearing the phone, are iconic
of living regretless in the Now. A Cool that’s beyond me:
I’m having some trouble acting suitably poised and ironic.

It’s sensible to be calm, not to make too much of a little thing
and just see what happens, as I think you are saying
with your amused look, sipping and letting me monologue,
and young as you are, Life, you would know: you have done it all.

If I get up a little reluctantly, tapping my wallet, keys, tickets,
I’m giving you time to say Stay, it’s a dream
that you’re old—no one notices—years never happened—

but I see you have already given me all that you can.

Those clear eyes are ancient; you’ve done this with billions of others,
but you are my first life, Life. I feel helplessly young.
I’m a kid checking mail, a kid on his cell with his questions:
are we in love, Life, are we exclusive, are we forever?


This poem can be found in the volume, During.

Think about how the poem made you feel. Do you often think of life as unfairly short, or more than enough time?

May you live out another beautiful poem in the collection of your life today, and we’ll see you again tomorrow.

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