The Telomere


It’s the little cap on a strand of DNA
That stops the chromosome strands from fraying
It degrades after many divisions 
A little more each time
And prevents cells from reproducing
The end of the Telomere is the end of us

We, helpless, watch our little cap wither
Day-by-day 
As they are programmed
Our ends written in beginnings

Photo albums, if in sequence,
Progress toward the inevitable
The newborn pictures - feedings- first steps – potty – riding horsey – the sleepovers – breaking Curfew – diplomas – stop; no more!
Even then we are coming undone
Growing our memories at the same time unraveling our strands

Now scientists are looking at the planarian worm
Whose magic resides in everlasting telomeres
When they reproduce,
Offspring not diminishing but truly fortifying, 
While we trade our fate with our children for collateral

If you could be an immortal, how much time would you waste?
How would it be to know the play never ended?
Maybe with so much time on our hands
We could reach Maslow’s pyramid top
Remember that… self-actualization?
Or for some… prolong the misery

Perhaps the telomere knows why it comes undone
For us and not the little worm
Would Gone with the Wind work
If we followed Scarlett back to Tara
For a never-ending tantrum?

The telomere knows something
It gives the signal to its double strand
“This is your time; make with it what you will.”
And we… collective strands… put the cap on the day…
Or leave it off until…

On the Green Line
A question hung from his lips
Until  the screech of Boylston Street ended
“There is a hike… with…The Appalachians”
But she was already hiking anywhere else



She glowered at me the  last time I ever saw her
The whirl of set, unpaid ushers, and my tardiness
An ancient glare out of Aeschylus
All the laughter and Hot and Sour Soup
Fell off the stage



Between bookings to Albuquerque and Des Moines
Speaking to Mom on his headset
“He’s healing alright… right?”
“I don’t think so.”
Another coach for the West came on screen



“Where are you and the towel going?”
“Singing Beach”…a joke tried to ascend
“You’re not invited”
“That was nasty.”
That was the last word ever



The rabbi read the eulogy
The writer too cowed to deliver
Not a dry eye or unbusted gut
His brother -  now without stag horns -
Let this first wave of fame wash over



Booking done for the helicopter tour
The waiting in the lobby still held tense
Pop extended his hand
After all these years Son shakes
Soon to cross over the Waimea Canyon

Return Home


There’s our old house again
Where my story began

Shades and shadows gather
Pipe smoke of my father

Neighbor-blocking hedges
Frayed along the edges

The layers of white paint
Suffer a moldy taint

Hallways are quiet now
Where brother brought me low

Fish tank I neglected
So they self-“ejected”

And I moved to Boston
It could have been Austin

To deal with toilets dripping
Hedges needing clipping

Bees between the sashes
And stock market crashes

But along  the hallways
Bright and sunny always

Silhouettes of trees now
Never  call them shadows