It’s hard to say on any given day
I am more than wet coffee grounds —
useful as black berries are in gardens.
Reasons abound to see life as torture
and to numb and wish myself away.
Women sultry as Marilyn got less far,
mistaken about what they were here for;
But those who would rather, I figure,
have grown and blossomed in my stead
include Martin, Malcolm, and Marley —
None of whom lived to forty.
So am I not lucky to carry on? Am I not
lucky to remember? Am I not lucky to project
the tiniest dream on a screen much bigger than
fear, and much bigger than the variable x?