All my days

Is this the final moment then
that all my days have come to?
the days that stretch their listless light
to long dark nights in restless sheets
with stains and dreams of crowded streets
past well worn shops that beckon...

preparing a small space for me
beside the day old bread,
or hanging on a butcher's rack
disembowel'd and display'd;
I find I am, though, unafraid.
It seems I've failed to reckon...

to put away these childish things,
or would it even matter?
you pluck me from the bargain tray
and think "I could be fatter!"
Would you take me in your home again
to serve me on a platter?

And would it matter after all
to toss my bones so carelessly
in an unkempt corner of your attic,
toss them with a clatter
amid unremember'd debris,
watch the dust mites scatter?

Or stretch me out across your sink
like a ragged dishcloth spent
in frantic grips that turn and twist
that twist and rinse unclean.
the pale kings pass the horsemen's git
their silent knell brings fear.

And yes, its true, I've been afraid
afraid of things that matter;
of lonely walks in darken'd woods,
of crowded streets that scatter
forgotten dreams like autumn leaves;
I fear the horsemen's clatter.

I have seen the children playing in the yard
moving akward climbing the broken gate
they spill out onto the drying field past
the wheelbarrow still moist from the rain
they call for us to come and play
their voices unrestrained.