He who has learned to die has unlearned slavery
The Good Book. Consolations. 27:29. Made by A. C. Grayling (2016)
I’ve never been fifty before, so this should be interesting,
like the day I finally decided to be happy—as if becoming a merry chap
greeting fellow carousers with a pint in his hand could assuage the guilt
I’d accumulated over the years—by taking dying classes
on a maternity ward.
The day I forget how to spell my name will be like a violin playing
a violinist—somewhat unexpected, but not overly dramatic, calm even,
except, I guess, it’s better to embrace the little drama of the present
with backaches and cooking dinner for one while listening to Lisa’s song
played in a loop and leave the whole spelling affair as it comes
to a letter cutter.
As days of vigour wither on the creeper,
so do the specious ploys and inclinations;
yet something keeps the throb in a sagging chest
of the quinquagenarian in the making, which is fair,
for even the turning of wine into water
requires having the plonk in the first place.
hidden pilcrow 