the poetry zendo: the only option: keep going

The day passed like the old man who died in his ragged gray underwear. No one was watching. Yesterday's chicken was reheated for dinner. And no one was there to speak to the old man, so the meal was silent. Bland chicken and bland peas. Then the sun slipped down and slowly the room grew dark. That happens a tiny bit at a time, like old age creeping in. He did not reach for the light switch. He closed his eyes, put his head down on the table, and let out one long and final breath. Then it was night, and the day had passed like the old man who died in his ragged gray underwear. Who knows now what was in his heart? No one knows that.

When fear sets in I know I must be doing something right.

We stop to look upon the corpse in the snow. Blue skin and an open mouth. Open eyes. Moonlight across the frozen face. Moonlight that plays a soft music that entertains the snow. And we say a prayer for soul of the deceased. And we say a prayer for the ones who grieve. And we say a prayer for ourselves, for our lives. We stop to look upon the corpse in the snow. And around us gather the ghosts of many others who died alone, without even their names. We stop. We speak the words. And we move on. But before we move on, we cover the body with snow, using our cold and wet hands like shovels.

I have always believed that I have only one option, to keep going.

James Lee Jobe