Anonymous

no one knows who
i am, no photos
of me on a
screen, where i might
look wealthy or important
wearing a suit, standing
serious, ready to buy

or sell something, or
convince you that i
am indeed successful,
i walk, don’t drive
a tesla, or anything,
and therefore you might
not know me and

how i sometimes just
stare at trees and
how that is just
fine, good enough to
breathe and watch you
in wonder, trying so
hard to be somebody

At 80 Years Old

If I wanted, every day could be a funeral.
So simple, just put a name into the computer,

wait for the obituary to pop up. Those older guys
are gone, my coaches, teachers, even that camp

counselor from Pine Island, up in Maine, he
could hold his breath underwater for 2 minutes.

Never thought they’d all go away, but there’s
the little candle, Legacy.com warming the screen

with another smiling photo. I read all the comments,
deeply miss her, sincere condolences, with such

a heavy heart. And I feel the weight of age with my
scrolling fingers, try to remember the last time I

saw him, her. What did we talk about? Maybe I’ll
google their kids, see where they ended up.

Minutes pass and I close the laptop,
pretend they’re all still alive.

Emergency Money

I have a stack of one-dollar bills tucked away
in a drawer, because a friend told me that when

it happens, cash will be the only way to survive
without internet and impaired technological

devices. When it happens, I suppose I will want to
buy water and Clif Bars, and maybe some chocolate,

easy on the tongue, when everything else fails,
like power lines and no NBA game on TV.

And some days I find myself ruffling through the
bills, counting them up, imagining them tucked

into my jeans as I amble into jagged earthquaked
streets, or knee deep in the water of all demise.

And in these moments, my cherished
money looks like frail pieces of faded paper.