a sad eyed lobster in the tank
is waving its banded claws at me,
flagging my attention.
Save me, he says, save me.
I turn away. I am so sick.
All these packages of flesh and bone,
as I am a package of flesh and bone.
I walked along the streets in the snow
which is now up to my ankles,
and black fish are swimming in my blood.
How will I make it through the last half
of my life, I am afraid.
I am afraid to be alone now.
I am afraid of my future.
I am going to live to the end of my days
and will have done nothing to last
beyond myself.
They say that a teacher can never know
just how long
he matters.
But I do not worry about my posterity
as a teacher.
I worry about my life as a strand of DNA.
Am I to be the last of the great line that made me?