Thirty years, or thirty days
the future hides while we close our eyes and count
so we place our bets on a past track record
while time races in a tight harness.
Thirty years, or thirty days
this could be the last car we’ll need;
while the cost of health escalates
we learn the algebra of convergence.
Thirty years, or thirty days
we revisit old travel photos
consider one more trip to Europe
but decide against another cat.
Thirty years, or thirty days
we hear that another friend has cancer
and someone we know has been knocked from his bike
yet the daffodils return each spring.
Thirty years, or thirty days
No news is good news, the nurse once said
so we’ll take that, blind to what’s beyond the bend
and sign up without reading the small print.
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