I count down the last days until the end of the year, like a
jailbird crossing off days on a calendar, only I'm not in a hurry for my life
sentence to end
I used to count the
days the other way, calculating just how long I could expect to be here, even a
little anxious to reach this age or that, when I could drive or drink, when the
draft could claim me, looking ahead even to the holidays, full of cheer, even
when I knew they might not be, now my calendar is bulging with pages full of xs
and fewer days ahead to mark off, this assumption I have control of it, can
count on days ahead, when I might not yet meet my maker, hit by a Mack truck or
counting on luck to keep me from getting robbed, or when I might find love
again
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