This mortality creeps

upon me like

the relentless

single-minded zombies from

“Night of the Living Dead.”

Death and all her

servants  

keep dropping hints

into my life

like postcard solicitations

falling out of magazines.

My eyes take longer to refocus.

My torso stiffens overnight.

My hips surprise me

with their occasional ache and

some presumably insightful thoughts

vanish

before they ever reach my tongue.

It’s tempting

to luxuriate in the past

because I like

what was there

and I could handle it.

Now when I

search through the channels

of the crystal ball

the predictions

all sound dire and moribund.

But there is always fresh pain,

new confusing concoctions

that spark some lizard brain

adrenaline reaction.

It is urgent

demanding action

reminding me that

I cannot

lie down just yet.

I remind myself

the reason to be alive

right now

is that

the worst now

is still better than

the best yesterday.

But if that’s not good enough,

then this:

every February

I look back

and remember 1990.

Since then I’ve made

a million steps and

two million missteps

but if I make it to next Tuesday

by the grace of God

that’ll be 19 years of sobriety,

and I still think

that’s something

to look forward to.