I wish I was old, with long, dry riverbeds of much older tears
delineating my face, so that I would look like the trunk
of a wizened and broad-leafed tree stooping in the noonday sun
to shade the familiar dust of men,
the men of dust
who once walked freely and planted axes in my face that now are rusting
and I would be wise with long days and nights plentifully done,
tidy and prosperous with all my memories,
these memories like a rich bouquet of dried flowers, furred with dust and sentiment,
knowing the tale of myself,
knowing the tale of these long, fierce years
then I would smile smugly at the end of the day
because I would know how this one's going to end.
Lift the covers
and roll out from under,
to lose that dragging
darkness clinging from your dreams.
Brush your teeth slowly,
in time with the sonorous new day.
don't stop yourself
from looking at the deep pock marks,
the budding stubble.
It's all you have to remind yourself
of the many days you've already survived.