A Life of Errands

If you are lucky,
you will grow old
and live
a life of errands.
You will discern
what people need
and provide it
before they ask.
You will drive your car
here and there,
delivering and picking up,
and neither the traffic
nor the weather
will bother you
in the slightest.
You’ll take the 405
down to San Diego
to pick up an acorn
for someone’s proverb
and so on.
Despite the pain
in your heart
for the girl you
never found
and the fact that
after years of
spiritual rigor you failed
to enlighten yourself,
a certain cheerfulness
will begin to
arise from your
broken hopes and intentions.
With what thirst
you face your next assignment:
digging through sunglasses
in a lost and found
in Las Vegas,
just a few hours
across the desert.
Your hair is white,
you have a chest
and a belly
over your belt,
you are no longer a boy
and not quite a man,
but a sense of gratitude
animates every movement you make.
Yes, sir, these are
indeed the two gold-rimmed glasses
he left in the plastic tray
beside the dollar slot machines.
No, sir, I’m not lying.