poem

 The Book of Life

It’s true, the Book of Life exists

And everyone is obsessed

With knowing how much 

Of their own life survives

The supreme editor’s red pen—

Am I a chapter unto myself

Or a single page tucked

Away in the glossary,

A footnote that foregrounds

The motives for another person’s

Much more interesting character arc?

Some people rifle through the sections

Desperate just to see their name

Even if it only appears once.

If that were me I’d tear out the page

Where it was written 

Pitch it to the wind or

Crumble it up and eat it.

It’s a thick book.

No one would ever know

It was missing 

Then there are those who take their time—

Read it all the way through to the end,

Uninterested in their own petty uneventful lives 

Focused instead on overarching themes

And interconnecting narratives.

This is dangerous, of course.

The deeper you get into the story

Of life the more engrossed you become

Which leads to the epiphanous realization that

The moment you turn the last page 

Must be the end of your life

Because anything that might happen

Afterward wouldn’t be in the Book

9/2/24