Wednesday, February 14, 2007
If I have but one wish
it will be not to die in my old age
when all my teeth are gone,
my head showing more forehead than thin gray hair.
When I walk with a cane and a limp
if not confined to a wheelchair,
my hands tired of pushing myself,
or bedridden and fed like a child.
When my memory of wonderful years
with my loved ones gone,
of a past not long ago
when I was a teen
an uncle, a lover, father and a friend.
If I die young,
I would miss my children growing up
(and their children, too.)
I will never know what became of them
or what professions they have.
I will never know if I messed things up
or if I did well?
I have to die someday.
So, I hope I die in my ripe old age
maybe 90 if not a hundred and two.
But since I hope to die sane,
lucid, strong and healthy,
by my calculation, that would be
at age thirty-two
Call It a Day
I anxiously awake while the sun still sleeps
to prepare myself for work.
Take a sip at my mother's drink
just to give something
to my empty, grinding, whining belly.
Neither bread nor toast for us today.
Just lukewarm, recycled coffee
to carry the day.
With my bag full of make-up,
(No make that paint instead,)
together with my off-white jumpsuit
that has never known a washing machine,
fake miner's cap and metallic shades,
I head off to the mall to make a fool of myself.
I shall stand still
never to move until someone
drops a coin on my box.
It is then that like a toy
wounded to work,
I do a robot dance, gyrate to music
played in my head
But that's not worse.
My friend has to stand on stilts!