I’ve got no business on the moon.
Looking for me once, somebody said, a famous poet,
find me here, find me there, something about
dirt and grass. I can get behind that.
Who was it who said time waits for no man?
Or time heals the wounds? Or, time is on my side,
yes, it is? What a bunch of dummies.
Time is the stream I go a fishing in–that guy.
I just read a poem written by a friend
about the death of Henry David Thoreau.
I liked it a lot. It was good. Funny. Not
the dying part. Dying is rarely funny.
And from memory I can “quote” a quote from
the poem, some guy saying that he loved
Henry, but didn’t like him very much.
I don’t know very many people
I could say that about.
You will not see me underneath
the hood of my car, or using a skill saw.
You’d be lucky to see me hammer a nail.
I have become preoccupied with other
things I think I may never do, some of which
about which I do not care. Others, yes.
I’ve got a sex bucket list, for instance,
that I may take to the grave.
To be or not to be was not the question.
What was the question? That is the question.