I am just now in the early
autumn of my life, the green
just now beginning to gray.
Exactly seven days ago I sat
with one of my oldest friends.
We both agreed our give-a-shit
is broke. It’s not that we don’t
care, for we do, deeply. It’s that
our to-care list has been culled.
We’ve seen life is blisteringly brief.
Once upon a time we cared about
Evangelicals, but not any longer.
We both care about poetry—he
refusing to cease his love affair
with the lady of Blackwater Pond
while I dance high-wire blind
without a net to the strains of the
one-eyed Mozart of the Prairie.
And we both give-a-shit about
living—this being particularly
poignant for my oldest friend
dying of pancreatic cancer,
his leaves already brittling,
slowly beginning their fall.