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
this poem was first posted on Oct 2009 on Myspace.
(i have aged a bit since then)
Many Thanks to Dale Winslow and Lance Strate for featuring this piece on the Oct 2010 edition, sixty-seventh volume of ETC: A Review of General Semantics in the Poetry Ring section, pg 439.
A time comes for everyone who lives long enough to
realize —perhaps within a heartbeat— that there is
decidedly more miles in the rear view mirror than
what appears ahead in the next viewable stretch
on this road called— "Life"...
~S~