One foot in the grave and alakazam! The whole world
opens up to skin, your soul re-covered in ermine, new gray
boots with silver studs, skinny jeans aflame in Orange
Spice and Autumn Berry, a flirtation (that's all!) with
cancer. Why not paint the den, buy an Indian rug? And
how about a copper candelabra? Why not revamp the
the biz, revive those drowning dreams, churn out fifty
extra poems, pure butter. Get a new pup who'll perk up
the old one. It's magic. Heaven cavorts in the smell
of Italian parsley. Every morning, dancing on the red
linoleum while singing karaoke into the kitchen mirror
and sliding through your Michael Jackson moves you
groove, could be the next American Idol. Abracadabra!
Braver than ever before, ignoring the skeleton's boney
finger, the one that has just now grabbed your big left
toe. White ceramic flow of the bedside lamp melts into
its own light, just so, angelic. One foot in the coffin but
there you are, aglow in faithful denial, awash in an April
shower. All the right ideas have broken out of prison.
You throw some wild pastrami into a peanut butter and
jelly sandwich, get high on picking up socks off the floor.
But one sock has disappeared. No problem. Your old friend
can't have gone far. Just hunt until you find it. Or simply
wait, don't fret. It will find a way back on its own.