They are born near page one;

quickly collect the bits of providence

that shape and carve, from clay


I hold their lives in my hands,

turn over the moments that made them,

wishing for myself, so much more

to be like these lives.

Read truth, warts and all,

see the secret thoughts of men long dead

I speculate on how and why?

I love to sit comfortably in my armchair

and judge

and live, vicariously

But above all,

after the jaunt through history,

I love to sit at the deathbed

of men long asleep in Abraham’s breast

and listen to their last words

And ponder

And number my days





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