As a child
snapshots of aging men in tee shirts
staring out windows with their TV’s blasting,
overhead fans turning
above noisy restaurants
up and down 1st and 2nd avenues
imprinted my mind.
These images are recalled decades later
as I’m lying on my back,
blood laboring through my body
tired but not able to sleep
up but not able to do.
Much time is spent like this
only understood with age and isolation.
There is a question here.
Were these men my future,
the sum total of bangs, bruises,
ending in a state of inertia,
or am I similar but different
perhaps like a fatigued boxer
in the late stages of a fight
patiently waiting for the right opening
so I can turn this thing around?