As I near my eighty-first year,
I rise early, make my way to the market,
Hovering over vegetables, wary of distance,
Masking up, I sidestep ghosts.
Friends vanish, lovers mourn.
I walk a tunnel of remembrances,
Excavating threads, tracing lost connections.
Father visits in the hush of night,
Mother chatters in the hum of flight.
Friends, long gone, reappear without warning.
I sift through old days,
Measuring them against the now,
Rummaging through the past—
Finding it altered, softened,
A story retold in shifting light.
A journey of decay—
Our bodies, time bombs,
Ticking in their own rhythms.
Invulnerability is a farce,
A comedy played in denial.
The traveler knows nothing of time,
Nothing of place,
Surrendering instead
To hidden truths,
Drizzling across a darkened landscape.
Charging through memories,
I want to ignite yours.
My ancestors are gone,
Their echoes remain—
Photographs, smiles, blank stares,
A Bronx boy digging,
Dabbing away at the dust.
This poem argues nothing,
Sells nothing,
Promises nothing.
Words are only words—
Unless they hold truth.
Roll the video.