Another day

What will I do when I grow up?
I've asked this question every day of adulthood
And still ask it, verging on senescence.
I once hopped and jumped and ran,
As now I shuffle day to day,
Curious mostly,
Entrenched in patterns of easy recognition,
Known for diversion,
Anchored in family, friends,office, home
Dog and boat.

I'm waiting for a space ship
Always carrying a towel
Since Adams died, or so they say,
The Rapture still a promise
Until reincarnation or the Tibetan bardo,
Pearly gates or a C.S. Lewis' Heaven
With a bit of George Bernard Shaw
And a Mark Twain Twist,
But definitely on the Rock.

I'm still waiting for Godot
In this Kaffkaesque Kierkegardian
Myth of Sisyphus
Asking where is Martin Buber
When I need him?
I and Thou.
But mostly I and It.

The sensual shift of your thigh
In candelight invites distraction
While the world calls in your
Sweet inviting voice.

I am not at all ethereal yet,
But lifted by the dew on the grass.
And rain drops fall as the dog
Sniffs the passing of raccoons,
Or private eyes, who have
Had their way with last nights garbage.

Standing now in barefeet
On wet Ottawa deck
I breathe deeply,
Yet again and ask,
What will I do when I grow up?






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