The following three paragraphs were jotted down, perhaps at different times, on an old spiral-bound notepad that was lying around on a card table that I have in my home office. The second of the three was later used in a poem which I will include at the end of this post.
These jottings are presented here without revision:
____________________
The essential thing about me, he said, is that I never gave a flying fuck about nature. Living on a cold, dead rock suits me just fine.
___________________
I dress in rags because I don't have to. If I had to, I would go far out of my way not to.
____________________
Nobody seems to realize how old I am. I've always looked young. Since I've gotten old, this has resulted in my receiving comments that I have allowed myself to take as flattering. When I was a young man, however, I usually felt my youthful appearance allowed my elders and/or superiors, to take me less seriously. But now, here I am: closer to 80 than to 65 --well within an age group where many are dying, or already dead.
______________________
Last
Gasp
The
soul is tried,
the
jury still out.
On the
empty street
a
windblown Times
pursues
the man
as if
to bite.
Later,
at home,
the
poisoned air
lounges
on his plate,
dares
him to dine.
I am
not hungry, he lies.
I wear
these rags precisely
because
I don’t need to.
So throw
the key away, he cries.
Just,
please, let me breathe.
