One Life at a Time

It is an old photograph.
Your bedside.
A bed. A table. A lamp.

You actually made the lamp and shade.
A decade and more ago, and slowly
your table has filled itself with more.
A radio. A few books. Nighttime medicines.
a new lamp, tall and simple,
but none of it as simple as it once was.

There are days you want to be like Jesus
in the temple with the money lenders,
and throw it all on the floor, yelling at yourself
for filling the best of life with stuff
that hides what is important, makes it hard to find
in the mess.

You don’t of course. Your wild days are behind you
and peace means more than simplicity.
Is it better? Who knows? We can only live one life
at a time, so best to live it with the joys you find.
They are always there, the joys, somewhere in the clutter.
Always.

About this poem

At times I feel like I have lived half a dozen lives in my life. And some of them quite different than the one I am in. Is that good? Bad? Does it matter? The thing is, there can be joy in all of them, but sometimes you have to look.

The picture really is of my bedside, about 12 years ago. I really did make the lampshade.

Tom