I have five minutes
to lay my life on the line.
Five minutes of darkness.
Barely enough time to fill a pail,
walk down the street,
determine my zodiacal sign.
It is five minutes for a poem,
a smoking gun,
and I lay all my sixty-five years out
like a great page,
and a minute is gone.
I’m not sure I can tell my whereabouts.
The confusion of my life
leaves me without a ticket,
a cause.
I am too embroiled with issues
to see clearly,
to find an icon in the desert,
to keep a family bible.
Except, with only minutes to go,
all the colors come back to me,
all the faded designs of the world
are waking up,
all the noise is returning,
and the little songs of my heart.
The wind is coming through the trees
with a thousand arms.
The day refuses to go away.
It is forever hovering over the sea,
and my feet feel the grass
so I never need wear shoes again,
and love calls like a whistle in the distance,
with a dark face and clear eyes.
And I empty my sack of all memories,
all collections.
If I had five minutes to live,
I would tell you nothing matters,
and everything is infinitely precious,
even pain.
So I recommend that you lay your life
on the line,
five minutes, as I am doing today,
when I never wrote this poem,
or wrote one every five minutes until I sleep.
Everything matters,
every last second we allow ourselves.