with hangnails,
sipping tea
after a long day
of writing wayward poetry
about the man I was
the person I want to be,
coercing myself
to be present
despite the past,
and in spite of
the future,
haggling with my health
to hold out
another 40 years
so I can experience it all,
the fog and the fears—
for good or ill—
I should be so lucky
to live this little life,
somewhere in the big universe
that allowed my existence
to coincide with others' lives,
so tonight I rest
my chemistry
and consider everything
but not anything.