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Productive - what is a productive life?
     The Russians - old nobility - teach us that to love is to suffer,
     teach us that to live is to love:
     to burn
     or to burn out.

The agefall - behold, it has fallen.
Doors close behind you,
     watching things - so fondly remembered - change.
High school can only be spoken of
     in civilized tones
     among wines and cheese
      (remember - I was not one of you.
      We were not raised
       civilized.
       We were real children
       and only thought about the future
       when it was thrust upon us,
       or else content
       to be Ivan lay-upon-the-stove,
       Cincinnatus and his fields.
       Strange modern world 
       to burn the childhood bridges
  (bright plastic fumes,
  red and green and yellow)
       behind us.
       We 
       would have been content to stay.)
The petty intrigues of the school
     seen
     from the other side,
     where progress is good,
     streamlined.
     Nineteenth-century peasants,
     resisting change in favor of what is comfortable,
       home.
     Does nobody think of the children?

Over wines and cheese,
     I want to be authentic.
I don't care about success.
I don't
     want to change the world.
       (so why is this college
       paying my way,
       if I don't share their goals?)
Can I improve the world
     by living
     right,
     by being necessary
     to those around me?
Not merely a mother,
or merely a friend - 
       a spark
     so diffused among the strands
     of the web
        she can only be seen from a distance.
     Can I?

I was born in the wrong century.
     This one is too poor, 
      too pale, too streamlined.
I want the textures of ritual
     and even - belief.
The purpose of life is to live,
so why am I here?
Why have I put myself here?
What shall I do with myself?
To live is more than simply to bide one's time.

Bridges fall behind me,
        colored smoke
      with a whiff of vineyard
      and a touch of stale perfume.
But I am studying competence.
The world clicks.

You know, there's a wonderful gelateria at 13th and Sansom.
     Almond and mexican chocolate.
I get to the station 10 minutes late,
settle to wait for the next train,
and discover mine just pulling into the station.
Writing as we hurtle through the dark,
     I can live.
But what should I do?