And on the sixth day man said
Let there be God
for it was not good for man to be alone.
He threw his thoughts into the sky
so he could be baptized by his own strength
returning to him.
Dawn breaks on the border
of the middle of my life.
All of a sudden, nothing has changed.
The retirement agent,
beige with charcoal eyes,
points to the square I’ll have when I’m 65.
I wonder where our faces end
and the tuna sandwiches begin.
I almost yawn. It is cut off
by a lack of oxygen,
which is technically what started it.
I count the hours to bed
and think I’m not looking forward to death.
I imagine it’s like the tomb of birth,
big enough to hold wonder
that won’t fit into a question.
Like broken candlelight on the wide-arched ribs
of a Christmas Eve service,
before they fade in the hall lights
left on for late-comers.
What burdens does our long lost father lay
on a cold pillow in front of the night?
Perhaps He starts on his back looking up,
and seeing nothing, curls up on his side.