Can I finally risk a moment now to stop and ask, or am I
still just in far too much of a hurry
What was my story again? just text me the take away
Did I ever even try to know? yeah, right…so why would anyone
else even ask
Was I swimming hard but just holding my small place there,
close to the bank
What were those unspecified goals towards which I moved with
ever increasing speed
Did my influence end simply when I finally ceased spending
more than I was earning
What slowly diminishing rippling effects spread out in that
wake I long ago stopped making
Who is there to answer for me, if even I did not try and
question it at all for myself
Who was I but some uncle who died long ago, barely known,
leaving them nothing
And who were they, but minor characters, overlooked in my
unscripted personal melodrama
Do I abide in a saccharine heavenly glory, or have I been
sent to their tragicomic hell, or?
Where are those missing final statements from the boring
ledger of my passing life
Who was I really, if I myself could not be bothered to take
the time to stop and ask
Was I that gray and sick old man they turned from, who could
not even sit up in bed
Maybe the smiling, hurried so-called professional who could
not stay too long
Then again, there was that dripping boy who so reminded them
of his grandfather
Who was that guy I looked at in the pictures someone else
took when I happened to be there
What were those things that I found so important back then
that they kept me so long in a blur
Was I the one always laughing too loudly, way too often, at
the expense of others
Did I really spend a third of my life in bed and fully
another fifth in front of a TV
Why cant I find all that stuff I held as the very dearest to
life, not really too long ago
Where are those little darlings that made even all that work
seem so worthwhile
Where has that woman gone I loved so much that it could make
me cry
Is it true there really is no way, looking back from now, to
find out who I was then
Why does the value of my pleasures seem to have drained
through my hands like so much water
How come I don’t remember all the holidays I spent so much
time looking forward to
How can I fail to be able to reckon up the present value of
my lifelong reckless habits
Who was I and did that answer already disappear many years
ago, somewhere in my clueless past
Does it all really dribble out to nothing at an empty dead
end, just past nowhere
Then again, there certainly were moments, though I have sewn
no meaningful tapestry
Can’t I reach back now to enjoy the worth of all the things
I always did - for the future
Now
can I ask for some of that that time I was always working so hard to try and
save
