I am still young.
It is Wednesday.
It is 21 Wednesdays until the next Rite of Passage,
But I feel the time moving.
I wonder where I am going.
California seasons deceive
With plants that always bloom, and
I can’t know that I have not
Been here forever.
West Virginia Fall waved its arms
Of burning leaves.
Chicago winters buried me
In forty-eight inches of snow
And its demand for hot baths
To thaw the bone marrow.
California lets you live forever
With its constant fruit and lilies.
It only interrupts for fifteen minutes a year with rain.
Maybe I’m immortal.
Maybe I will forget that I can die.
Maybe I will type right through it.
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