They are born near page one;
quickly collect the bits of providence
that shape and carve from clay; men.
I hold their lives in my hands,
turn over the moments that made them,
wishing for myself, so much more
to be like these lives.
Read truth, warts and all,
see the secret thoughts of men long dead
I speculate on how and why;
see them in the deep valley of the soul,
then assail the peaks of conquest.
I love to sit comfortably in my armchair
and live, vicariously.
But above all,
after the jaunt through history,
I love to sit at the deathbed
of men long asleep in Abraham’s breast
and listen to their last words.
And number my days.