Another Day

  On TV, a girl on a talk show has 
  sailed solo around the world. 
  I wonder what it would be like to sail to Spain,  
  win the Archibald Prize,
  write a novel that’s half good. 
  
  In the meantime, 
  life is broken into fifteen minute segments— 
  an assignment marked, 
  a stir fry diced, 
  a basket of laundry folded, 
  a short story read from the book by the bed. 
  Enough bits like that 
  make up a day
  that can be crossed off, 
  so one runs into another. 
  It’s an achievement of sorts. 
  
  I liked it better when 
  the light in the bathroom 
  was softer, more forgiving. 
  Middle age is unquestionably upon you, 
  the expert in today’s paper said, 
  when one day 
  the image in the mirror is quite foreign. 
  Watch for the jolt, he said, 
  the reaction to 
  the slip of youth, 
  the futile hope, 
  the wish still to run headlong 
  before it’s too late 
  into the remarkable.