I’m a person who writes poems when someone dies
Who gets up every morning at dawn to see the skies,
who paints a watercolor every night,
And over politics will pick a fight.
Who is the pale person who looks out at me?
who walks like my mother and rarely shows glee?
Who trips on the steps and cracks in the road
As though the years are a heavy load?
Who avoids mountain passes that give me a fright,
And is often afraid to go out in the night?
That’s not me
That’s not me
That’s not me
I pull a trailer across ten states,
And sit alone under stars til late.
I donate monthly for a wild horse
And in hitting a squirrel, go through days of remorse.
I pick up old people in the freezing cold
Whenever I spot them stumbling down the road.
How to include the different views
Is an enigma and leaves me without a clue
But it’s not a problem if we know it to be
That our lives have the meanings we make for free.