Self I Sing

(for Uncle Walt)

It’s days like these are the test
Feverish in slicing air
Dog-tired on greasy platforms
Wind-scratched, huddled in our coats;
All the leaves resigned to falling,
All the sluggish bees on pavements
Angry at dying;
There’s myself
The one catching leaves
Before the pavement hoards them,
Jubilant and overwhelmed by you
Not crushing blades of grass and
There’s myself
The one who gets on buses
Awkward and dark-circled,
Clutching ticket hands in pockets, hands
Where all the nails are bitten;
There’s myself
And I am not consoled
By dying like the leaves
But not consoled by
Any god that kills us differently
I’m not consoled by any god.
There’s myself and these days the test;
Must try harder.