im not forty-five just yet~

the picnic table to celebrate this
occasion was likely constructed
in the 1960's just as the illusion
of security began to unravel

it will have marks cut into it from
a paring knife some kid snuck out
of his mother's napsack to

scratch in a few here-and-there notches,
juvenile swirlies and crisscross patterns
expressing out with what little language
he could muster at the time

and —of course— some initials

two letters representing a presence
which will later metamorphosize this
simple gathering point into somebody's
threshold between the sky and the grave—

a horizon cruel, unyielding and
dead straight

i wonder how many have sat there, pondering
the timelines carved into this rest area where
forty-five years of inertia will be spent in a
long venting breath

the picnic basket will be packed light when my
day comes, observing in the company of old and
weathered timbers, feeling the etchmarks with
worn fingertips for a name i never was...


"forty-five"
© 2009 by Seranaea Jones
all rights reserved