I’m staying here—immovable as debt.
I’m never leaving, never going to try.
I stay. And when the floor sags, so will I:
I will grow comfortable; I will forget
the dreams I never had the will to prove.
And I will sit all summers in the garden
and drink cold beer and listen to the stars
sing like mosquitoes. Comet tails of cars
will trace the freeway. Arteries will harden.
And I will age and die and never move.
Intention is a fickle kite to fly—
I know the best laid slabs can shift and crack—
but while the reel still holds the odd coil I
look forward to a flight of looking back.