one day
in twenty years
you'll wake up
and feel like
smoking
drinking
dancing
and
shagging
you'll try on dresses
shoes
dry your hair
make sure you smell good
and maybe find a twenty in a coat
you were getting rid of
and be thrilled.
next weekend
you may carry groceries to your car
trip on a rain-soaked plastic bag
that used to hold a newspaper
slip and lose
your footing.
you may hit your head on concrete,
thunk and
float up and notice
daughters
widows
cabbies
your neighbor's mother's sister
a priest who picks up litter
a surgeon who is late to a batmitzvah
your old college roommate
and they gather 'round your body
try to coax it back to life
in which case
i'll wish we'd had a conversation.
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