Refusing at Fifty-Two to Write Sonnets
By Thomas Lynch
It came to him that he could nearly count
How many Octobers he had left to him
In increments of ten or, say, eleven
Thus: sixty-three, seventy-four, eighty-five.
He couldn’t see himself at ninety-six—
Humanity’s advances notwithstanding
In health-care, self-help, or new-age regimens—
What with his habits and family history,
The end he thought is nearer than you think.
The future, thus confined to its contingencies,
The present moment opens like a gift:
The balding month, the grey week, the blue morning,
The hour’s routine, the minute’s passing glance—
All seem like godsends now. And what to make of this?
At the end the word that comes to him is Thanks.
I had a boring chore-filled Friday morning because I knew the Pokemon Go Halloween event was beginning at 3 p.m. and wanted to be able to go to Cabin John Park to meet raiding companions, though I actually encountered the first one near an elementary school where we had heard there was a perfect IV Pikachu, which we both caught. Now I have five Gen 3 ghosts and a witch hat Pikachu, too.
My parents have been in New York taking care of my uncle's apartment and accounts so we didn't do our usual Friday night dinner at their house. Paul and I watched the start of the lovely Astros-Yankees game, and now I am subjecting everyone including the cats to more Yuri on Ice. Here are some more photos from the Battery, including the ships and the Statue of Liberty: