Life
I sit around most days
In an old bathrobe marred
By countless cigarette burns
Like a poor man's Hugh Hefner
Except for the half dozen girlfriends
And a case of Viagra in
The basement.
No mansion in Hombly Hills
Just a simple little wood frame abode
That I have called home on and off
Since 1960, in those spans between
Wives and jobs, blue runs to here and there
Always seeking success and good luck that
Managed mostly to
Elude me.
No Rolls to carry me to the local equivalent
Of the Viper Room, which might be Goob's Tavern
A gun and knife club of distinction
Just an old tattered rider sitting under the holly tree
Battery dead since sometime last fall
Gathering dust and bird droppings
Like its owner.
Each day I spend hours sitting here in one spot
In a little room of perhaps 12' x 15' dimensions
Breathing second-hand smoke that would set the
American Lung Association into a slavering fit
Failing eyesight battling the fog to see this
Electrode that gleams in my face until
It's pasty tan from radiation.
I have remained in this configuration for over two years
Going abroad on Fridays only unless there is
Some pressing need, some essential forgotten
During the last run to the store, the post office,
The coffee shop.
Five years ago the idea of living like this would
Have been unthinkable, beyond the scope of my comprehension
For I was out and about, working, gathering news
Bothering people, making a few friends and
A lot of enemies.
Now I understand that I have gotten past
The point that matters, the place where life balances
On the unseen beam, on the teeter-totter of existence
What days are left will come and I will take them or
I will leave them and be not the better or worst for it
No matter which way the cookie crumbles.
It's not that I don't care in some deep place but
That I'm simply not concerned because, at some point
Nothing is worth concern, worth worry, worth the
Sweat off your balls.
One can't play the game and then blame others
For bad wagers, silly bets better left held in hand
Because the game goes on no matter how soon or
How late you slide the chair back and walk away
From the table.
But what the hell, it's all been sweet this
Long ride down, even the rough parts where
The path went convex against the future and the
Past rushed up in dusty array to cover any
good deed by accident done.
