There are no futures here. (a poem)

I work at a home for the elderly and I can tell you,
there are no futures here,
only pasts.

Only those deaths before death.

And in the homes of the dying echo
mainly the regrets of things undone;
no one regrets the being wild
and free,
or the buying the ticket,
or the falling in love and squeezing out a kid
before they felt ready —
because who can possibly be ready?

And the bodies of the dying ask me always a
wordless question:

Will you regret this?

This thing you’re doing now,
the place you are,
or the one you’re headed.

Are you living or crawling?
Creating a life, or reading a script?

Because rest assured, there are script writers.
They say, take pills and work.
If your brain doesn’t fit the span of our two rails,
take more pills and get back on track.
The average person is depressed,
anxious, scared to death, and they
owe a lot of money.

So don’t be average.

Cut your hair weird.
Commit to one pair of shoes (or none).
Forgive. Pushmosh.
Buy a flight.
Read the classics.
Go hard in the gym
and hard on the ramen.
Move. Quit. Restart. Put down roots.
If it’s not perfect, break up with them.

What are you waiting for,
a room to open up in the home of the dying?

e

Day 88 of 100 Days of Blog

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