I caught the Frog Chorale
At rehearsals this morning.
They put on quite a lovely show
As Wilma and I rode past.

The Rain was giving me
A summer debut,
Though the cast was meager
And most of the performers were understudies.
Still, I got wet, which was the main thing;
Polite applause at the curtain,
No standing ovations or cries of “encore.”

When I got to work,
I wondered about life and death –
Does God, sometimes,
Just call us alphabetically,
Or is it more sequential,
Appointed by number of breaths?
I can never tell.
Sometimes it seems random, but
Sometimes the percentage
Of the similarly named
Among the dying
Are too alike to be coincidence.

I wonder if the ride home
Will find the angels weeping once more,
Or if the Clouds will step aside
To let Sun through.
We’ve missed several of our
Regular evening chats.
Sun waits patiently in the cue,
For his turn to be appreciated
By the likes of me,
Though I don’t exactly worship.

My legs are humming
A nearly forgotten melody,
The lyrics of which have faded,
The chorus coming through loud and strong;
The verses praising the now
Of life and love’s conclusions.

I ride in phrases,
Waiting for the day
That practice makes perfect -
For my body to find the universal wave
That changes everything.

06/23/2011

Author's Note: I suppose I should say: Wilma is my new-to-me bike; and I work at a hospice office - hence the connection to the names of the dying.

Posted on 06/23/2011
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