Last Leg, 1 AM

Tonight is our last on the road

in a hotel, before the last leg tomorrow. The drive will wear out my Dad,

already snoring again after a second awakening (the first by

my brother and me 

giggling over a nasty pair of ear plugs

I offered him in the dark).

The AC whirs and chills my neck and shoulders 

where I sit tucked 

beside my roll-away, trying not to wake 

the rest of them.

It has been a long day. 

At the Arby’s, twelve hours ago, my brother asked me,

Does today seem wrong to you?  

Mom red-eyed in the parking lot, 

on the phone. Dad without appetite. 

Another surgery. Another ordeal.

Not really,

But maybe I was setting up shields, re-reading eucharisteo,

fastening my eyes on a single leaf whizzing by

to say, “God knows that leaf, that one

among billions.” 

We passed the Georgia Peach, the Shot Tower, like every year

up to New Hampshire from the Florida panhandle.

I was warm and small.

I have been trying to practice Now. Like trying to see my footprint

before stepping forward.

But I can’t see this one, only feel it.

Only take the next step, presently.  Look back and see the others.

Only whisper in the dark as the waves lap,

“I used to be afraid of the ocean.”

I'll be glad to have a cemetery near. No better place 

for an evening walk, a ramble. For making you feel blithely mortal 

and blossom-like,

This is my birthday, and I, like everyone save Enoch,

have a grave somewhere,

Goodnight,