I could live to be eighty and one night in 2029
stand leaning on the table in my kitchen
hit suddenly with a vision of the kitchen at 64 Elmgrove
one night in 1973 where I sat with Laird Holby
and he read aloud a passage from Howards End—

I could look for that passage and not be sure
but it said something about music and I think implied
a way to live for the glory of spirit without becoming absurd—

hit with that vision in 2029 I stand eighty years old
feeling I might wobble and fall and break my arm or hip
not because of ordinary weakness but because of suddenly knowing
that except for being an old man I am still nothing
but that young guy with wild hair, listening thoughtfully to Laird.

I could live to be eighty and I guess I have to wish for that
but I’m afraid of the minute in 2029
when I wobble in the sudden wind that blows
down the long shady corridor from 1973
when I suspected the reward for listening thoughtfully would be
to always have a delicious great chance to be
the beautiful understander
for whom everything including time makes good sense.