Softly and Tenderly

Venus was rising

when I saw a young man running

on the Central track.

As I approached, I saw he had as many years

as I do.

He admitted the craziness

of staying young forever,

but he was looking at Venus when he said it,

and we talked of the dying crescent moon,

still holding on at several billion.

I headed for the river,

at a walk,

I’m feeling my years,

and that I’m just getting started,

Venus still rising over my right shoulder.

As I approached the Gazebo,

I saw a man rise,

to a sitting position.

It appeared that he has my age,

but perhaps he was as old as Jesus,

if he had indeed been resurrected from the dead,

and had kept himself in really good shape,

by running every morning.

But he looked around,

and seeing no one who wanted his help,

he laid his head down by his boots,

and Jesus slept.

I stopped for a swallow of water

at a fountain on Mass,

then washed my face

in a sprinker popped-up

in a flower bed.

I tested the new bench

in the doorway of Minsky’s Pizza.

The acoustics were good.

Softly and tenderly,

Jesus is calling …

I still hear my mother calling

and she’s been gone

as far as I know,

for some time,

so while forever might be crazy,

I don’t know what the white-haired man

thought after he heard,

ye who are weary,

come home …

shortly before he saw someone

my age sitting on

the bench, tucked away,

echos still bouncing off

the brown brick walls.

I passed him shortly thereafter,

farther up the street,

he has a few years on me.

Venus was still rising,

but fading into the brightening sky,

I don’t understand what this all means,

but I’m approaching the river -

I have faith that the sun will be rising soon,

a commonplace,

but no less improbable

that I should be here to see it.

As always and nearly forever,

in the limited perspective

I carry with me,

the sky is reflected in the river,

such a wreck of a river,

the Kaw,

it’s so filled with farmland,

I wouldn’t be surprised to see

Jesus walking on the water,

even at his age.

I paused,

not to quench my thirst,

at the fountain by the levee,

but for a taste.

And as I recrossed the bridge

and headed home,

the sun rose again.

It’ll be a hundred,

before long.

I saw the guy who reminded me of Jesus

walking on the other side of Mass Street;

he too had risen again,

and was wearing his yellow work boots,

walking on concrete.

And then I saw the young man,

my age,

peddling off to work.

Softly and tenderly

I opened the back door;

the sinner’s come home.

for David