A suite of "bottom-trousers-rolled" poems of old men among windy spaces. When the day with no starting over comes, where shall I begin? With a tumbler of the best brandy in town, I shall do as Father did: drink the "clos...er" under the table.
NO STARTING OVER POEMS
The day does what it always does:/ goes away... /We need time to keep starting over. --- From “Counting Chicken” by Hannah Stephenson, The Storialist, 09-28-11
That day will come when another
will not, and there is no starting over.
Where will I find myself? How will I
strike it out of my calendar? Why?
Swinging on my hammock. Waiting.
No one arranged my empty schedule.
I would have to be grand and civil
then to uninvited guests? No choice.
I did not have to be born. No choice,
some hired help pulled me to an exit.
From darkness, I found light, and I
wailed till I could have turned blue:
“No, there must be some mistake!”
My scream was not that articulate.
All attendants at my beginning said:
“He breathes. He cries. He is alive.”
When that random day comes, I
will be generous with my Domecq.
Shall we have brandy, then, Monsieur?
How might I help you with your burden?
Ever the gentle host honed in niceties
now long gone from a trashy world,
I invite the closer of the deal to a toast:
“Long live days with no starting over.”
Why do I fret then about that little day,
while I sing my little Marie a lullaby?
She puckers her infant lips for a suckle
I could not provide, but settles for a cuddle.
Tremulously, I start singing the lullaby
over. "Abuelo will be here hugging you
safe and warm though hell freezes over."
It is a covenant that has no starting over.
--- ALBERT B. CASUGA
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