Craig Kirchner
Where you live is more important than where you die.
It’s not a parable, but it struck me like one.
I don’t know who said it, wasn’t Christ.
I heard it recently, don’t know where,
or the context, but it’s all I can think about.
At this point in time, there aren’t many stories
floating around about loving one’s neighbor,
the pursuit of those that have strayed or the
forgiveness of the wayward son returned home,
and certainly, no ten virgins seeking a bridegroom.
And unless there is a journey you will die at home.
I start wandering from joint to swollen joint.
It’s like driving the death-trap falcon I had as a kid,
the same pathetic carriage, now with thinning skin,
tanning to basal here in the Sunshine state.
I failed my last cognitive test, said it was Wednesday
on Thursday. He told me my liver, kidneys, prostate
were good. I told him that was because I had a good
sex life: he said he never heard that one. I told him
it was a parable told to me by my bookmaker.
When the stand-up routine was over, I went back to
the contemplation of dying, weighing on the scales
of importance in this condo, in this body, in Florida:
the Christ story, next journeys, stream of consciousness,
death, location, dinner, and what day of the week it is.
