I have arrived
at that old-age
enough to fret
whether the last time
I did – x –
will be
the last time I do – x -.
Not so much,
yet,
because of that inevitable, final, total,
ceasing:

“The Big X.”

Rather,
any one of the little x’s
in the conglomeration of doings
constituting my life:

Eating spicy Thai
the night before
my Gastro-Guy
orders me to say
“Good-bye”
to such culinary delights.

Coming.

Sprinting five flights of stairs
in the stadium grand-stands
without resultant knee-pain
and gasping for air.

Coming again?

Filling my HR-V
with Cosco-commodoties
and emptying it,
carrying gallon jugs
of Langer Mango Juice
from the garage
to the fridge.

Going-off… dry.
(Dad called it “Shooting Blanks”.)

Hearing whispers of harp-harmony
in the midst of a symphony
without hearing aids.

Hoping my coming
wasn’t just
a dream of going off.

Hearing something.

Coming or Going.

Remembering.

Anything.