somewhere
in the journals of life
a number was written—
was written beside my name—
a quiet prediction
made by statisticians
and the calendars of time
seventy-sixty
seventy-seven perhaps
a tidy place
to fold my map
and close the door
but the door never closed
instead
it remained open—
I stepped through
walking on
beneath fluorescent skies—
my breath still moving
in and out
I missed the announcement
to please exit quietly—
so I remain
like an old dog
that refuses to leave the porch
now
like an old dog
my bones complain
like old wood in winter
fatigue drapes itself
over the afternoon
the sun still rises
with stubborn ceremony
clouds drift the same
as they did when I was twenty—
wind still moves
through the branches
high in the trees
as if practicing natures musical
as I sit here wondering—
not why pain exists…
not why time carries on…
not about its heavy gravity…
not about angels on pinheads…
but why
my small flame of breath
still leans toward tomorrow
no answer arrives
only morning after morning
opening its quiet hand—
placing another hour in mine
as if it had always meant to
I feel my road should have ended—
I now travel borrowed miles
I suspect
there was once a ledger somewhere—
a neat column of years
of miles
allotted to me
a careful estimate
drawn up by invisible clerks
of probability
the column ended
but the road
has not
It keeps stretching forward—
through ordinary days…
through their fluctuating length…
through season upon season…
through rain tapping upon the roof…
through the soft blue television light
of midnight rooms
my body still carries
a caravan of complaints—
bones creak
energy wanders off
like a tired guest
still
the heart—
that stubborn drummer—
continues its slow
sometimes irregular rhythm
inside its quiet cavern of ribs
I walk unsteadily
very carefully now
through each morning
the air tastes the same
as it did in younger seasons—
cold…
bright…
a little mysterious
birds continue crossing the sky
without consulting any statistics
light spills through windows
flooding across the floor
day after day—
increasing and decreasing
with extravagant generosity—
time continues
upon its relentless way—
but I realize
these extra miles I enjoy
are not owed to me—
they are only
borrowed distance—
in borrowed time
unexpected road
beyond the place
where the map was meant to end—
where my journal was meant to close
so I move on—
…gently
…gratefully
…and most curious—
like every human
who has ever
walked this beautiful earth
…wondering
—just how far
the road ahead
is willing to stretch—
how far the horizon
is willing
to keep stepping back—
how much time
have I been allotted—
…when does my journal finally close ?