Positivity
By D. A. Powell
“Anyway, it isn’t forever,” Chris said,
“eventually you’re dead.” And we laughed
Besides, everything is better now. Not us
but implants, blenders, children, heart attacks.
There’s never been a better time to be alive
than when you are. If you are. Black-throated
blue warbler says chewchewchewchewchewww
drawing the last chew out like a sucking drainpipe
to say he has mated and is satisfied. Say what
you will about that. His joy is uncontainable
and yet it has a form, a measure, to make it clear
he’s not upset or feeling anxious. And if he’s bragging,
well, it’s no shame to brag that you’re happy.
Honeybees cavorting on the goldenrod are working
toward a common goal they’ll never see achieved.
They lay down the walls of their cathedral of honeycomb
and will not cope the spire, busy in the present task,
trusting that the work continues. I’d like to write
a children’s book called everybody dies. Upbeat, of
course, and pragmatic. You only got so many
days. Don’t think about death; when you’re
ready, death will think about you. Go out
tonight with your friends, like Chris, who went out
big or not at all. Have a ball. Plan ahead.
