By Joseph Milosch
The loneliest place is the bottom of the hill
where an old man begins to curse.
Leaning on his cane, he breaks his climb to church.
His swears, and his curses don’t fulfill
an ambiguous need but drive his will through his knees.
Therefore, his curses become prayers for his pain to cease.
He’s repeated these oaths for years and wishes
he could conjure words as powerful as Merlin’s curses.
Then, the power of his speech would give eyes
to the concrete, enabling the sidewalk to see
all who would trespass in the vision of its destiny.
Thus, it would obtain consciousness of its own demise.
Does growing old force one to accept it is enough to enter
church, to genuflect, and to settle in on the pew’s kneeler?
Closing his eyes, he makes the sign before whispering,
“Lord, don’t let me forget I was born here, danced,
married, and welded rivets in the tallest building.
Let me remember the prayers taught by my mother and aunts.”
Sliding back into the pew, he waits for service to begin.
While he sits he snoozes, and his cheeks seem to slough.
His hands settle into his lap, and one could imagine
him dreaming of legs — young and strong enough
to stroll over hills, but it seems clear that his slumber
doesn’t bring him dreams of surfing or hiking Big Sur.
Upon reaching the state where he stops thinking
about his wife’s death, as well as his wishing
to be free of or at least able to control his pain,
he arrives at the point between memory and dream;
thus, he finds his ancestor’s path to peace on earth.