What Did That Self-Help Guru Say?
“Simply subtract your age from 65
and that’s how many good years you have left.”
That makes mine fewer than minus three!
Once vim is reduced to a negative toddler,
is it O.K. to sit and forget half your French?
It is not. Instead, before I’m minus four,
I shall sing and descant upon love
in a language I as yet don’t understand.
Perhaps I’ll send him a postcard from Kandahar;
perhaps I’ll send him an elephant tusk
made out of marzipan
by a lovely, crazy German living in Irkutsk;
he apparently thinks old age is the time
to stare like a cow while a fly
navigates a bulbous nose. Should I rage?
No, rages are unseemly after minus three;
having outgrown my terrible minus twos
I’m ready for a raucous minus youth,
and if I find a tarantula in La Descubierta,
I promise I won’t send him a fanged memento mori
in a silver candy box, crawling on blue cheese.
"Don’t Take Jesters Into Outer Space”
One day they’ll be laughing on Enceladus.
Clowns on a tightrope from Deimos to Mars!