POEM: At Sixty-Five (For Rick)

At sixty-five you think you’d have absorbed

enough wisdom through the pores of your skin,

settling in your lungs, travelling to your heart

& brain to give you something practical

to say. But no. That’s not the gift that was

given to you. Instead, joy is your su-

per power, not invisibility,

not strength. Not even the power to with-

stand raging fire, or to turn into ice

at a moment’s notice. Joy: that bounding

dance that unbinds us, that loosens us a-

gainst a world that double-bolts everything.

At sixty-five you’d think the memories

of us as children would be visible

from the outside, tattooed through the stories.

which never wear out from the re-telling.

Like thick marinara, aromas fill

the head. What I see is a mop-headed

kid counting planets in the night sky, who

taught me calculus in grade school, lying

flat on your back surrounded by churlish

waters, hands locked behind your neck while the

world burned to the ground around you. “Relax,”

you said. I love you for that. At sixty-

five you’d think you’ve entertained us enough,

roaming the globe with your guitars, & harm-

onicas, foam clown noses & fake thumbs

enough to make your point: that it’s a sin

to be too serious. But no. Somehow

the show always went on. At sixty-five

you’d think it’s time to look down, as if on

a mountaintop to total your blessings

& regrets into columns for the great

balance sheet of a life. But no. You

move as a hummingbird - from flower to

flower - giving all a life suspended

in mid-air, your finest illusion yet.

& I love you for that.