On Turning Sixty

The decade sounds ominous
Now "S"s as the "F"s
Recede in the rear view mirror

A curdling unease
Vague notions of hobbling
Canes, vanished virility

Creaky joints crimped digestion
And "sir" as the cashier
Rings up milk of magnesia

The mile marker slides
By the window of this
Passing train

A shade lowers a bit
To hide the harsh light

Tell me something
I don't know
That days have numbers

That fall and rise
The price set by how
They are spent

Short supply
Infuses illusion
With clarity

The forelock of time
Waits to be plucked
Love to be spoken

I am learning to
Take a deeper
Breath

A welcome shock
To the System

A sweet taste
Of creosote
Of hot chiles

Work

At the end of the day
At the end of a life
When the heavy lifting
Of providing
Is done
The real work remains

Beneath the clutter
Of complaint
Insult
And sting of being
Overlooked targeted misunderstood
You see it is not
About deserving or fair or redemption

You give up licking old wounds

You no longer wait to be saved
But begin the work of resurrecting yourself

You sharpen your gaze
And do not look away

You want your soul
More than fame or love or comfort

You remember the assignment given at birth

Your work is to desire that which endures
To step forward
With every tool
You have crafted from the stones
Of your questions
To meet the fear
Unlock the gate
The obstacle blocking you from
Your joy
Your grief
The thrill of your
Divine inheritance