I will grow my remaining hair long,
and wear slip-on shoes.
I will clear a corner in my house,
set up an easel, and paint badly.
I will squeeze every avocado
at the produce mart.
I will freely offer opinions
at dinner parties,
but I will never host dinner parties.
I will use air quotes frequently.
I will not accept the premises
of most questions.
I will sit on the fire escape
with a bottle of vodka
and devour all the books
I was once too busy for.
I will openly mock
bureaucrats of every stripe,
but I will gush reverently
about one particular woman,
and have quiet talks with God
without ever entering a church.
That is, if I get old –
if I am actually alive.
I will refuse to define old
because it should be obvious,
nor will I explain alive
because opinions vary,
but I hope for time and faculty
to linger and fuss over words,
and, perhaps, write some
better poems than this one.
