Till We Can’t Choose

TILL WE CAN’T CHOOSE

another day.

old dog tucked, wrapped like a burrito.

the other AWOL, soliciting someone else’s compassion.

Cinder Well praying from the glass.

A Scorched Lament.

coffee from Grandma Betty’s mug.

God rest her soul.

the dead remain in the handles of things.

and here I am,

ancient armor, hardened resistance, worn thin.

so I bite softly.

still teeth.

fear is unacceptable.

not because it won’t come.

it knows the address.

but it does not get command authority.

I’ll be damned if I’m gonna use the last bits of life

bemoaning the package.

this is the package.

the failing parts. the ridiculous beauty. the dogs. the dead. the living. the music passing through glass. the hand still lifting the cup.

may your threads be filled with beauty

till the thumbs stop twiddling.

change the purview.

not:

what is being taken?

but:

what is still here?

not the failing instrument,

the music still passing through it.

not duration.

participation.

pull up.

give it a little thrust.

just enough to alter the vector.

salute the sun.

look to strongholds.

and three thousand miles away,

my dear,

good morning.

same sun. different window.

the world hasn’t changed.

the aperture has.

move it

toward beauty. toward tenderness. toward the living.

it’s not over till we can choose.

nose up.

till we can’t choose.