Hearing the rain falling on the corrugated roof of the esplanade,
I felt a fuzzy feeling of comfort.
Ten years ago I never imagined that:
I would have a car,
eat out whenever,
reach the end of the month with money in my pocket.
truth be told,
I couldn’t imagine being 45.
That unknowable hinterland of
splayed over a vastness of spurious living.
I used to think,
If you’re not dead, you’re just lying to yourself.
It all reeked of spiritual bankruptcy.
As I listened to the rain,
cozy and cocooned,
I saw that,
I had learned nothing that justified my existence at this age.
And that all I know,
and I seem to know it for so long,
seems vexed by my insistence on living.
I should have come to some other terms with aging,
this ancillary time needed newer reflections,
and didn’t deserve to be judged,
In all its deep otherness,
Hearing the rain and thinking of getting home tonight.
Putting my pajama,
choosing some movies
a nice dinner…
all that is needed on a Friday evening.
And I understand
why there’s no structure to being forty.
the only true conquest of middle-age,
are impervious to reason,
impenetrable to justifications,
and wary of thought.
Our narratives stop,
To begin again at senescence,
with death bringing purpose and poise to us all.
Hearing the rain I think that thinking isn’t the answer.
Not to this question anyway.
I look approvingly to my new coat,
and loiter a little longer at the lunch table.
Finishing my wine,
drinking another espresso,
lighting another cigarette.