Letter to Moorman from Advancement

Dear David, a confession: since retiring, I wear flowered
shirts to formal occasions, remain silent at karaoke bars,
and sigh when genuflection is expected. But place these
failures in context: there is no there, here. The morning
after I didn't die, they served a salt-free, eggless
breakfast, bracketing me within parameters meant
for strangers from the land of congealed arteries and creased
faces. In other words, tomorrow and the following days.
Of course the gap between the body's cholesterol and that
in food swells daily, and we'll soon discover that raw yolk
is the new Viagra, and the cost of poultry will rise in synchrony
with the penises of aging former vegans. But enough of that.
The EMT chuckled when I requested lights and sirens,
and grinning through the tubes and morphine haze, I watched
the traffic snap shut behind us, worried that my new
jeans would be scissored off for expediency's sake. The old
shirt never surfaced again, but I didn't go under and still
remember everything, which is unusual, they say.
I don't recall our first meeting; somehow decades
stacked around us, and now we find ourselves peering out
of our respective caves, in the dimming light some call
retirement, and others, the antechamber to death's
murmur. As you tread into this brighter phase, will you
occasionally bob up and gulp great draughts of air
before slipping back into that word-ocean, one hulking
fish among a school of lessers, nodding sagely, taking note,
flexing fins and swimming against the current, with humor
and grace, perhaps a barb or two, well placed, as only you
can do. And if you see me facing forward but washing back,
don't worry. I'll grab a tail and hang on until I get
where I'm going, as you will, in your new day, advancing,
advancing, steadily. Forever. We'll catch up before the next
eclipse or mini ice age. There's no rain in the forecast,
but the universe blooms daily, as does the thing with
feathers, ever between. Always. See ya sometime. Bob.

Robert Okaji holds a BA in history, served without distinction in the U.S. Navy, toiled as a university administrator, and no longer owns a bookstore. His honors include the inaugural Shō Poetry Prize, the Slipstream Press Annual Chapbook Prize, the riverSedge Poetry Prize, the Etchings Press Poetry Chapbook Prize, and the 1968 Bar-K Ranch Goat-Catching Championship. Two years ago, he was diagnosed with late-stage metastatic lung cancer, which he finds terribly annoying. But thanks to the wonders of modern science, he still lives in exotic Indianapolis with his wife—poet Stephanie L. Harper—his stepson, a cat, and a dog. He is the author of Our Loveliest Bruises (3: A Taos Press) and multiple chapbooks, including Buddha's Not Talking and Scarecrow Sees. His poems may be found in Louisiana Literature, Threepenny Review, Only Poems, Wildness, Vox Populi, Evergreen Review, Boston Review, The Big Windows Review, Shō Poetry Journal, Indianapolis Review, and other venues, including his blog, O at the Edges.