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.