Walk with me,
while I collect my spilled sorries
like litter on the boardwalk.

Those small years I
forgot I count.

And I’m thinking,
maybe I could make
something of these —
the fragments of a forgotten self,
something that counts.

Let’s stroll a little while I think.
I’ll play the fool
and you, the wise man.

Will you give me permission?
Because I’m not fond of asking.
Oops, forgive me.
I’ve been compelled to ask anyway.

Can I make something of these years?

And forget the war and waves,
and the big blue hands on either side
of this spinning marble.

Can I just be glad to be somewhere,
playing in-between,
and getting it all so wrong?

The years that I was sorry for being alive,
and full of feeling,
when you were laughing.
And truth be told,
I should’ve been laughing, too.

You knew there was something
in here that counts.
You knew there was something made of meaning.

And you, wise man, knew
it all began by playing
the fool.