I Paid

that tax collector and the other guy.
The electric and gas at 39 Cherry are cut off
and the mail all forwarded,
even the junk. You would think . . .
but why bother muttering
too soon. This is just getting good.

We have what couldn't be better --
new windows, new household music.
Each day our boy stalks the halls
of a new school, dancing
when he wants to, becoming known
on his own, his very own
whims and refusals scattering
like a story that will be told
by a good or bad teacher one day
to another good or bad teacher
until he wants to forget his homework
just to remind them
to forget him.

As we get wiser, we get older. I think I'd rather be
dumber and younger
always. Let's drink more wine. Some of this
is just so rich
it pummels. Wake
from an afternoon nap
having forgotten your own name
and you know what I'm talking about:
Where you are, breath, where you aren't.
What you have, breath, where it's going.