To A Friend Somewhere In Vienna. Poem by RIC BASTASA

a poem is just a poem
words trying to make out
a certain significance
wanting life, yes, life.

you want me to accept
that i am there, that i
am not just a magician
that in every thought
something about me is
squeaking, like a rat,
calling for help caught
in a trap with cheese
unconsumed, taken,
silly, silly. Life. yes.
it is life, but it need
not be me.

the world is composed of
all of us. I see you there.
I see us. I learn from it
and then i write. Just

this morning, my body is
weak, and to choose between
waking up and sleeping till
noon, i could have chosen
the latter. But who shall
wake up for me? for this
world? it is only me, not
you, not them.

no one can do this, except
me. And so i sing my cough.
I stretch an injured leg.
I wave my hand and tell you
i meet the morning as usual.
Activated. Alive. Persistent.

There is no sufficient reason
to surrender. Death can wait.