This the expectation: every road from on top is downwards.
The greatest successes have this limitation,
and from heights like Macchu Picchu
a misty moonless flight of slippery stairwells.
Below is all paraphernalia, redundancy, exceptions,
little better than discounts at the movies. Oh, I know, I know:
it is silly to bemoan.
There are still those beautiful pictures. And no, though
I hear strains of musical comedy
announcing banana-peel falls, infarctions, failures to thrive,
I shall not say, let’s contract, let’s sell
those collectibles, have E-bay auctions
like blasts of a trumpet,
sell, with the blatant vociferousness of a used car salesman,
until four walls, or a nursing home, the epitome of assisted living,
are all of this bio-drama remaining.
But bipolar feelings have a hold like cling-wrap,
the constant changing purview,
like etchings in a dark stairwell, ambiguities
which sway one’s cognizance,
portrayals of irreconcilable elements.
Moments of hot relish are now shorter,
farther between than you remember.
Still, it’s best to hold on tight, as long
as the electric current has not been cancelled.
For, though tuned to a kind of hoarseness,
Life is still a song, though often discordant,
and, like brittle clay, barely fit for handling.
You are not compelled to love it.
So these are the things we do.
We gather, and we give away.