TWELVE~TWELVE~TWELVE

Digitalized Photo by S. Auberle

Of course you knew I would do it    I had to     who could not write a poem on this numerically auspicious day    on this day the Mayans may have predicted our world could end    then again they might simply have run out of room on the stone tablet     thrown it down and went over to the local ceremonial hall for a beer    but we'll never know unless of course it actually does end    perhaps even before I finish this poem    at 6:03 a.m. in the month the Anishnaabe call Little Spirit Moon when the temperature is 16 degrees and a lone icicle suspends itself out my window    a day when I am    o my god seventy    and the sky is turning fifty shades of pale rose   indigo     and cream      a day when Pope Benedict XVI hits the one million mark as he tweets dear friends and I hear my grandma rolling over in her grave   my stubborn grandma who really believed the pope was infallible    though we are assured    thank goodness    that his tweets are not    on a day when North Korea launches another rocket    there is another mall tragedy      a day when Manuel Pardo eats his last meal of pumpkin pie and eggnog before he is executed in Florida     this day when I'm thinking of getting a dog again though the last one near to broke my heart    and mother of god I'm seventy    and what happens   do you think     when we die     because even in the best of circumstances it can't be too far off    this one thing we all share    this one thing I'm even scared to mention    which is what this poem is really about and do you think Zackie my dog and grandma will be there to greet me        because jesus I'm seventy now    aren't I     and the colors in the east are fading     becoming one grand chorus of light…