Take a shot every time they say “recession”
on the nightly news, in a solemn voice.
Half-a-life had passed since your last confession –
and what God would listen to all that noise?!
Silence is golden and your hair is silver.
The mirror, once smiling, has now frozen numb.
Take it all in without so much as a shiver, -
you are, after all, all you didn’t become.
Life is short and it’s growing shorter.
(“Growing shorter” – a peculiar turn of phrase).
All the weight that you once were inclined to shoulder
unexpectedly waned in the evening rays.
Life is beautiful – and it’s growing more so.
August is smoldering – yet the leaves won’t light.
And you savor the poetry to the final morsel,
to the crumbs of scattered stars in the night.
It is precisely this (your own) unimportance
that guarantees, if anything, then a peace of mind,
and the freedom you finally feel now warrants
a celebration of all that you’ve left behind.