In the Quiet

Lying in the quiet

I look at my hand.

I stretch the fingers to their full length

and close them again into a fist.

What was it Teacher taught?

twenty-seven bones in this hand of mine.

Or was that the foot?

All glued together by ligaments and tendons.

(I’ve forgotten since seventh grade which does what.)

There are the muscles to move them

and the tangled veins to feed them their blood.

I stretch the fingers to their full length

and close them again into a fist.

Out back, I hear my dog bark at some sound she heard.

How odd it is that I and my hand exist

or my dog and the sound she heard.

All of us made by an unaware Nature

or now absent god.

My father’s hands are thicker

my grandfather’s were longer and stronger

and on his father’s hands I only remember the old-man freckles.

My hands will be bones in a box

for far longer than they will serve me in life.

All of its lasts achieved.

I wish the bones could tell me

When these lasts will come.

Some whisper or tingling warning.

It is the last time you will

help Grandma out of her chair.

It is the last time you will

hammer a nail — after it, you’ll build nothing more

It is the last time you will

scratch your head, drive a car, touch a woman’s cheek — touch THIS woman’s smile.

Pay attention to now, fool!

It is the last time you will scratch a pen across paper

to write your clumsy words that will go unread.

All of the lasts are growing nearer

some have passed already.

They come in secret

only seen over the shoulder.

I should listen to the wisdom of the Stoics

since my bones aren’t talking.

Forget what I want

to think instead of what can be lost

so I can love what I have.

Spare a thought for the last time

each time.

Is it this time?

If not, it’s one tick closer to the last.

(Sometimes, there’s not time to make it rhyme.)

Savor it.

Soak it up

before these bones are in the box

they will know far longer than life.