It’s hard to be where you aren’t

Because there’s too much headwind whipping now,
too much ocean motion for me to feel your ripples,
finger skin tendered soft, how I complain about it from here
where I’m still managing to stand erect, haven’t passed
into the remembering time of sad good old days,
being blown so hard over things we mightn’t do,
the days in between birthday candled bookends,
well, who knew, how they’d workaday to weaken us
against a strengthening wind, that we’d need help
to hobble to the end of the course, because we never did
what we’d do, not wish too well the up ahead, too bad,
the over there you and the over here me, so weak
we need propping up to steady us against a force
that would keep us back from finishing in a tie.

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