Racing Into Funeral Plots
Did I do it?
Just barely, with minutes to spare.
There is always too little time.
I want to do twenty-four things,
but three will have to suffice.
Life is longer at five than at thirty-eight.
At five, I had been alive forever.
I had been five forever.
Now, everything is only yesterday,
and I race headlong into five years from now.
I get letters from a local cemetery.
They insist that it's good to think ahead
when it comes to picking out our funeral plots.
I can't imagine that I'll care moments from now
when I'm relieved of this speeding meat train I'm on.
Where was I?
I was doing this.
I very nearly forgot,
but, now that I'm back, the moment's grown a little longer.
I keep forgetting that I can slow this bitch down
when I remember to see what's right in front of me.
The above poem is a response to