GIVE US THIS DAY

The old bus shelter
has spray painted walls
and a broken metal bench.
Each morning
he shuffles
up the hill,
a battered leatherette
briefcase clutched tightly
in his right hand,
a copy of the Seattle Times
“Nixon in China”
in the other.
He sits calmly
on the bench
case between his knees
and waits patiently
for the bus
that hasn’t run
this route
for the better part
of sixteen years.
Still, he waits
until the sun
sinks behind
the 7-Eleven,
when he shuffles
down the hill
toward his small apartment
satisfied with another day
successfully done.


 

TIME’S ARROW CURSED

 

He will be 90 in a few weeks.
He doesn’t think this is possible.
He says he wasn’t supposed
to live this long.
He asks again how old he is.
You’re still 89, I tell him.
He has a relieved look on his face.
Then he smiles at me, says,
that means you are pretty old yourself.
I begrudgingly agree, though only out of necessity.
Two weeks ago he was certain
he was on the verge of death.
Today he says he is fine, says
he heard someone claim to be dying
but can’t imagine who it was.
Perhaps it was in his dreams, he says.
He goes back to watching television intently.
Tomorrow he won’t recall what he watched,
or perhaps that he watched.
But he knows he will be 90 soon,
or something like it.