I remind myself,
all the time, they do—
They walk off sidewalks, and cars come;
limbs rise from fog;
collapse from some congenital legacy
a grandparent left behind.

There is no guarantee that midlife
will be the middle of your life.
To the young kid, I think:
How lucky he doesn’t know that,
but I, at 35, know.

I defray this knowledge with calendars,
scheduling barbecues, promising I’ll go
to PhD presentations at local libraries,
I’ll see Edison and the Eclipse at the planetarium
and Animals as Leaders at the Fox. I’ll live.

I’ll start jogging, tomorrow.
Drink less, fret less, eat less,
sit less, complain less,
stress less, talk less, tomorrow.
Sleep more, tomorrow.
Listen more. Tomorrow.

But each pang in the chest, cramp in my side,
stiff knee reminds me this could be it—
This could be the last minute
that I am who I am, and
good enough to be who I am,
so who I am
had better be good enough
to outlast this last
minute.