The Not-So-Big Adios

(where does a man show up again
at  the end of his life
yet to be who he meant to be
who he is)

People want me to go out with a cowboy whoop,
and so do I. We'll see.
What should a universe sound like
when it says adios?

First, I guess, I should explain time.
Um, elastic. We all agree.
Some seconds just last for hours.
Others, not so much.

The baby's spittle eventually gives way
to firing speeches, and going our separate ways,
severance pay and COBRA,
and good luck you poor son of a bitch.

Clouds were cousins.
Horizon my third best friend.
Ocean a fairy tale beast.
Father Sun. Renfield Moon.

The asphalt of the Catholic school playground
was never set, waving, sinking, swooning to temperature.
But I got knocked over playing kickball, and there's asphalt
hard enough to put me out, waking up to a circle of my friends' heads.

Yes, pavement holds penalties, in several ways.
Don't ever sleep there. Or fall. Or give up and sit down
right where you're at because that place is important.
There's a lot of pavement. Just don't act scared.

To boil it all down,
you must step off the planet.
(This is a way of talking,
not true, but true. Right?)