It’s strange these days, the way we talk about death –
like everybody saw it coming –
now that we’re old and calm
Some of us pray, and others of us, when we clasp our hands, it’s around a bottle
All of us muttering
until it grows silent
And not that soft, churning buzz we all live in like blood in water
Real silent silence
The eerie nothingness of a child blown in the wind, broken like a tree branch whose spring leaves never bloomed

But we’re old now and dying young is a souvenir of our past, like first, fumbling kisses and the bruising warmth of learning how to be wrong
If the Michaels and the Brians and the Elizabeths can make a solid run at life
then there’s no reason we all can’t make a go of it
Except, we don’t
Because we’re old now, and calm
and most nights when we climb into bed we don’t sleep alone, while the city buzzes all around us
Protecting us
from us
and the silence where our youth rests
in pieces

It’s strange these days, the way we talk about life