You expect
every morning
to be different,
and it isn’t.

No one coddles you
in any way
you desire.  There’s no
long-awaited recognition

that you are a gift.  Instead
you move slowly around
your shabby rooms trying 
to be quiet and minimal.

You don’t even bother
to wrap yourself in festival
colors as you used to. Ancient
T-shirt, ratty sweat shorts,

beat shoes or none if you’re staying in.
Usually you are staying in.
Coffee then the desk if it’s a work day,
and since it’s usually not off you go

instead to what feels like
your real job:
looking out dirty windows
at your leveled world

and wondering how far
you’d have to go
to find a better one,
if there is one out there.

To the desk, anyway, 
as soon as you can tear yourself away
from your captivating despair.
Make a record of all this. It might

do someone some good.
It’s done nothing for you, true.
You never became the gift
you longed to be. Maybe this will.

The point is to live so widely that
something more is left behind
than tiny paper cups on your bedside table;

laugh so fully the hospital linens
get up from where they cover you
and stagger away in fits of giggles;

and love so thickly the whole staff 
comes running when you code
to applaud and wipe their tears.

The point is not to leave a hole
when you pass, but an entrance
for others to walk through.

Waiting for coffee to brew. It’s been bright out but I’m a snoozer. 
Lying here guilty, nothing is done. I’m such a loser. 

I usually do at least one thing before coffee. 
Start a poem, balance the books — but not today. Call me loser.

So far? I opened my eyes and I fed the cat. I showered and opened
the living room blinds. Nothing else. Not much to say but “loser.”

Some folks would tell you it’s enough to chop wood, carry water,
let impressions lead to enlightenment. Keep it simple, loser.

Tony, you may say, it’s just a word. To fight is to win. I may say:
this is not your path and I’m not on yours. Stay your tongue, loser.  

Come to the table
and I will serve you
all you’ve asked for:
look, it all awaits

on formal china
with proper silver
set beside the plates
in proper order,
all laid out upon
the best linen,
spotless
and soft.

I promise this to you
in the name of propriety
and all I have tried to do
to explain my faults away,
at which I have failed
in spite of decades of 
effort. 

You tell me 
I should have just tried harder
to not have the faults
in the first place
and we would have been fine
eating little but bread 
with our fingers and cheap wine
from old jelly jars
while seated upon stones
in a ragged ring around a fire.

I look at this table,
think of all
I’ve spent upon it.

I look up at the vaults of heaven.

I am not at all sure
I’d be the same person today
if I had done what you asked.

Perhaps that is your point:

if I’d been welcome
in the house of your God
all along I would have been

a different man;
you would be here,
and I would not.

Riddleface Mountain
is on my bucket list
of places to visit after
I die. The name

tugs at me like a pup
on a cuff. I want to hover
before it, a midair ghost;
stare into the granite,

and let it make me whoop,
delighting in the punchlines. 
I’d have that slight twinge
of regret when I guessed right

and then of how I’d beg for another,
another, squealing for more. 
At some point I know I’ll need
to float away and see the rest

of the land around those parts.
But before I do, I’ll hang suspended
before the cliffs
of Riddleface Mountain,

laughing one final time
at moments of silly human delight
as if I were a four year old
delighted by small things.

Some days
we wake up
inconsolable
atop a mountain
of bones.

We settle 
upon the summit,
snow caps waiting for
the full sun of hoped-for
summer.

If the mountain
is tall enough
we may never
melt free
and pour back down
to the green lands;

in the mountains of bones
some peaks remain
frozen forever.

A day will come
when we pass and become
bones waiting
to be grieved
and covered by those
who loved us once;

for their sake and my own
I pray I shall not end up
part of a mountain
that will never thaw.