Late Aubade
        after Hardy

So what do you think, Life, it seemed pretty good to me,
though quiet, I guess, and unspectacular.
It's been so long, I don't know any more how these things go.
I don't know what it means that we've had this time together.

I get that the coffee, the sunlight on glassware, the Sunday paper
and our studious lightness, not hearing the phone, are iconic
of living regretless in the Now. A Cool that's beyond me:
I'€™m having some trouble acting suitably poised and ironic.

It's sensible to be calm, not to make too much of a little thing
and just see what happens, as I think you are saying
with your amused look, sipping and letting me monologue,
and young as you are, Life, you would know: you have done it all.

If I get up a little reluctantly, tapping my wallet, keys, tickets,
I'm giving you time to say Stay, it's a dream
that you're old—no one notices—years never happened—
but I see you have already given me all that you can.

Those clear eyes are ancient; you've done this with billions of others,
but you are my first life, Life. I feel helplessly young.
I'm a kid checking mail, a kid on his cell with his questions:
are we in love, Life, are we exclusive, are we forever?

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Copyright © 2016 James Richardson All rights reserved
from During
Copper Canyon Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission