when I asked how long I would live  
my father told me about you
to comfort to my six year old ears
he saw, perchance, I was no longer beguiled
by the ignorant innocent myth
of immortality, on the same night
he spoke of infinite electrons
spinning in a car dome light  
strangely, I knew,
even when the car door closed
those energized specs would spin forever
and dance about on a minute stage
when Methuselah was nothing
but words on an ancient page  
still I saw his long white beard
counted his earthly years,  
and asked father
if my number would be as great,  
perhaps colluding to avoid my fate,
as the oldest man who ever lived