When I was about this age, this poem seemed to speak directly to me. I did not know that almost a decade later it would still be all too much mine.
Ghosts
by Oliver Cooperman
At fifty-three, I have lived long enough
to see the ghosts of my failures
and understand that they are not
separate from who I am.
Despite my early promise,
I have been so slow
in understanding life.
My jokes don’t seem funny anymore.
I’m tired of myself
and restless with others.
Looking for glimpses of
the master’s hand
behind the curtain,
I clumsily stumble forward,
praying for grace
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