Who’s Afraid to Slowly Fade?

During the walk, I wonder,
How does my “Eraserhead” t-shirt
differ from the Nike swoosh?
Which lie did I buy?

A twisted tree has fallen to the stream,
the roots exposed, a ragged wheel.
The tree does not know this,
new buds on the branches,
as if, all is well.

The water is gray-green,
thick with sediment. I
look down into the pool,
and there I am;
a boy, a man.
Strange, I feel neither.

A heaviness creeps about the face.
Richard Burton got that way,
around “Equus” and “1984.”

At 53, I’m a little like Burton,
a little like that tree.