REALITY IS HARD TO MEASURE

They say I'm sixty-four,
almost sixty-five. But that
is only what they say. Which part
are they talking about? The reality
is much harder to measure.
We've tried to draw lines,
impose definition,
trying to simplify
matters.
It's all been futile.

Somedays,
I feel near death;
many things
are broken
or have rusted out;
but I felt that at twenty
and thirty
and forty.
My constant companion
of fifty-five years
cries out
for compassion,
and I'm either lazy
or mean-spirited.
Diabetes will,
like my one plant,
fend for itself
for awhile. I'm
busy

sitting outside
at a cafe
across from my ghosts,
getting a lung full
of New York exhaust
I watch
the parade
of flesh.
Faces and breasts
and hips and tight
hot everything flit
by, uncreased
by experience
or common cares.
To them
I'm just an old calendar,
but I still try
to drink it in,
catch an eye knowing
a life can turn
on luck.
Once in awhile
a person older
than myself shuffles past,
using a cane, pushing a walker,
holding on
to an aide.
They fiercely concentrate
on their next movement.
But, for some reason,
they go on. Perhaps,
they like me
wanted to give up the fight
fifty, sixty, seventy years ago,
too, but were like me
a coward.
Instead, I pulled the covers up
to my neck,
or drank
or shot enough dope
to make a little space
for myself.
That's all you really need
you know? A little space.
Somewhere where
they can't get to you
for a beat; a space
to play in.
And I was lucky
to find over the years
those spaces
often enough
to frustrate the demons
and amuse the gods.
I remained confused,
confused and so very
teachable.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2012