I don’t want to fade into the pastel sunset
in Vero Beach with Barry Manilow
playing softly in the background.
I don’t want to look like Dick Clark, Ronald Reagan
or even Liz Taylor.
I don’t want to walk my two miles every day
at the mall with all the usual suspects
in the Golden Age Club.
I don’t want to circle the wagons and get all
my ducks and IRA’s in a row to defend me
against the ravages of uncertainty.
I don’t want to spend my whole life erecting
a Star Wars Defensive Shield to protect me
No, I want to let my whole body age and weather
like an old tobacco barn — showing the blistering
summer heat of loving, and the gray winters
of grief in every board.
I want to load my pen, paper and poems
into a rucksack and spend the day
tramping the open roads.
I want to fan my tiny spark of existence into a blazing
campfire under the blind night sky.
I want never to rage against the dying of the light,
but instead, become a dancer in the darkness.
I want to live every day with my arms outstretched
and nailed to the grain of experience, dying
each morning into the innocence of dawn.