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Board Administrator Username: mjm Post Number: 3925 Registered: 11-1998 |
Honorable Mention Turning 65 Charles Levenstein I could walk dogs in the morning, small ones, two or three at a time, carry a shovel and big plastic bag, maybe two, the other for cans and bottles, not that I need a shopping cart, no need to wander or beg, just to stay amused. I could pack groceries at the organic store, chat with bony ladies and tattooed children, grin at the Russian émigrés after 20 years still wonder-struck by the supermarket; I could sell flavored water to runners, unscented deodorant to the sensitive, coconut massage oil to the sensuous, free range boneless breasts without skin, triple-cream cheeses from France or Pennsylvania. I could eye other old men who love nature and the false promise of spandex. I could canvass for peace or the heart association, raise money for and against cancer, I could ring a bell or toot a horn at Christmas, get into fist fights with ex-priests who picket abortion clinics. I could smoke marijuana, hand out flyers to legalize drugs, go to town meeting to protest scabs at the latest luxury structure still under construction, or the parking spaces that will sell for $65,000 each – I learned the price from equipment operators who like to chat on their break – I could be an elderly spy. I could write poems, such a solitary game, unless I went to workshops in Concord or on the Cape, hung out in bars and bistros, read at open readings until discovered and won the Pulitzer, became Poet Laureate of Samoa, published in translation in obscure languages, chanted at Naropa, had my picture taken naked in a diner or with Susan Sarandon on another errand of mercy, the senior center at Temple Beth Shalom which, without irony, displays a sign supporting Israel in its pursuit of peace. I could write poems, walk dogs, pack groceries, canvass and fight. |
