It begins in quiet
at just predawn
while seated with 
back straight, pressed
against the couch,
my hands folded in my lap.

It seems I should be
doing something
since I am awake.
Early to bed, etc.; so
the saying goes. But
I’m surely not healthy,
laughably unwealthy;
wisdom slipped away
when it sank back
into a dark dream river
as I opened my eyes.

A breeze rising in my backbone
blows through from there
to sternum and is swirling 
around my cooling heart.
I hear a ticking from somewhere
from a clock I don’t own. 

My father died not long ago; died old.
My mother will die older; likely soon.
Everyone I know
is on that same clock.

It seems I should be doing something
since I am awake — early to bed,
etc. Of course. It’s a proverb.
It’s wisdom. Apparently
it’s mine now. But what is it
I am supposed to do next
in this remaining life
when all this wind is in my chest 
and a hidden clock is growing louder
in my ear?