“You just can’t do it
You can’t breakdance at 85
the way you did when you were 16,
but,” he said,*
“time is a giver,”
and either we see the gifts
or mourn our losses
on a long, sad road.
But I would rather be a woman
who grows her hair real long
only to shave her head
once she has her fill of
hanging on to twee folk days
and then become a monk,
bald,
in maroon and saffron robes,
one arm naked
and the other
modestly covered,
bent against the chest,
praying, praying, praying
doing all the right things with his brothers,
chants and humility and such,
who suddenly lifts the antaravasaka
to reveal the saddle shoe wood clogs
she always wanted, thought were cute,
and kicks the holy foot in the air
to send the shoe sailing
the same arc of the rainbow
that landed over the ferris wheel
at the county fair
because his heart had started
to beat easier faster and harder
when they heard the music
of the band
(or the rides?)
near the cows.
The gift would be
standing up in my clogs
on a tiny footstool
in the mountains above the fairgrounds
(a present of presence of vision
that has come-
slow as molasses!-
with the passing
of thousands of seconds)
throwing my uttarasanga over my shoulder
and from high above and abroad
seeing, really seeing
the vastness
and the relation of our lives
and not caring
about anything small or big
and still laughing
at what a mess this life you are
and everyone else is
even if it is only for a second
because the scene is as beautiful
as a quiet Hopper painting
set in the waving green hills
that hide the festival rides
being packed up on a truck
as the gambling wheel
spins to a slow stop.
*Dr. Cornel West
