It is how I spend
The first Monday of the rest
Of my life. I hope.

I have a blockage,
Arterial constrictions
And a condition.

Good thing I complained
Before it got serious
Said the pessimist.

I feel like I am
Not a man, but an illness
That can be prolonged

By interventions
With buzz-saws, tin-snips and wire
In my jigsaw chest.

My heart pumps profound
And slow into a blockage
That is metaphor

Striving for meaning
So resist its temptations
It reveals nothing.

Life gains urgency
When you carry death inside.
Prescribed relaxants

Steal your will and dull
Your edge when you must be keen
And bright as razors.

But come, you may say,
Many have this condition
You are not unique

And I smile and say
I need 100 years more
Not just 25.

I am not ready
To look backwards at my life
With satisfaction.

What I have to do
Has barely even begun.
I must finish it.

But today I am
Convalescing, not allowed
To type lest the blood

Floods out of my arm
In the form of words I wrench
From this broken heart.

Perhaps tomorrow
In the garden I will make
Time stand still for once

And see the blackbirds
Entering our strange world
Against all the odds.

Then I can forget
How I let life pass too fast
And start it again

With age’s wisdom
And compulsive urgency
To complete my work.