Humans live
long in proportion to
what they don't
do. Lusty types
weather fast, their
skin turns to
leather before
forty. Monks
count their years
in scores,
walking robed. In
heaven, you live
forever. Comatose
humans are said to
hang on longest.
Ten years. Fifteen
years. Not long
in the grand
scheme, but an
eternity, considering
the debilitated
condition of crouching
near death. I
have lived my life
in dog-years, aging
seven times faster
than I need. Look,
they say,
he's twenty-three
but that's
one-hundred
and sixty-one
to you and me.
Originally appeared in The Paris
Review.
© 1989 Patrick Martin
Audio Reading:
Windows Media Player
MP3 Encoded (32 KB)
© by Patrick Martin. All rights reserved. No duplication in any print or electronic format is permitted without express permission from the author.