Styx
Some days, I eat chips with chopsticks –old skin dreads washing – and paythe liver toll; glove when changing lights,weak knees on creaky steps, wonderingwhere time went; we moved in only yesterday.Phone chimes, Charon’s ringtone:the wakes coming too often, too soon;each remission a triumph, each bounce-backa finger to Hades – not today.
Other days, I light three joss sticksat the Buddhist temple, paying wishes forwardto kin, not self; never as greedyas the hungry ghosts: Take me,if you must. Drum and reed flowout of Lord Krishna’s temple, trailing meto the library. By its tall windowsI race time with my pen,marking moments, making music.