Old Story, Good News.




Together since the beginning,
You and I—
growing up this way,
how could we tell each other apart?

One being—just this body.
It was always so obvious—
there was nobody here but “me”.

Does the car get confused with the driver?
Does it feel itself alive, as it
drinks gasoline and drives
all over the town?

And the house?
As it warms itself in the morning—
furnace firing away,
then windows widened
and thrown open to the new day?

Don’t be too sure about
what I am saying.

Old hand,wrinkled and pink with spots,
scratched from pruning
the cedars in the driveway,

writes words with a plastic pencil.
The carbon trail:
both a clue and all the proof
that is needed.

The pencil keeps writing.
The hand gets older.

Who is still here at the end of the day?
I have a suspicion, but what about you?
The sea tastes itself and says
“Yes! Absolutely salt!”

Lick your own skin,
then close this book.