We are the ones who grow too old,
aren’t we, friend?
We are the ones who wake too late,
left in bed by last night’s lovers.
The ones who never sleep
on transcontinental flights.
The ones burdened by the fertility
of stone and glass, pregnant
with so many listless desperations.
The ones set free by empty days,
but weary of enormous skies.
Our cigars ember with joie de vivre until
our lips are burnt with ash;
that is just like us, isn’t it, comrade?
I knew a man like us
who left in such a hurry—
said, “ah um,” then died.
He was the lucky one, was he not?
Here are the rest of us
at the bottom of a bloomed horizon,
reading paperbacks in Bermuda,
trying not to skip ahead.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published.