LACES

Michael James

          Today I’m tugging on my shoe lace,

               Bending over my left knee

                    The side with the hip that hurts when I stretch.

                         To reach the shoe, I wonder,

                              Should I replace the lace that binds because it’s frayed.

          I realize it’s come to that now: 

               An existential moment concerning a shoelace. 

                    But folded into that question, 

                         Like roads in all directions 

                              Rolled up into a bowling ball 

                                   Which I’m to launch down 

                                        The lane ahead of me, 

                                             Are all the little decisions and changes of direction 

                                                   Forced by an aging frame? 

          Will it be worthwhile to buy new laces? 

               Do I see old men tying knots in their broken strings 

                    To keep the flappers on their feet? 

          The time must surely come when I say, 

                “Enough, no new stuff! It won’t be used,

                     Or at least, not consumed.”

          I remember promising myself that I 

               Would not court death until I was used up, a burned out coal, 

                     My fire given out to heat young minds.

          But the unexpected happened: 

               Parts started wearing out before the whole. 

                   As with your good old car, you replace what’s broken,

                        Fix one thing, patch another,  

                              Live with what you cannot change. 

          Old Lizzie hobbles on 

               Still following those unraveling roads 

                    Which understanding says should converge

                         At the horizon if it’s far enough away. 

          And what if they do? 

               If all roads lead to a point, 

                    Then I’ll finally have to live and die punctually, so to speak, 

          To squeeze myself to a point, 

               Shed accoutrements like fears and personality, 

                    Like hankerings and references, 

                        All things familiar let fall 

                             Is what I think will happen 

                                 When the last lace breaks. 

          January 2012