My Argument with Sartre's Math

One always dies too soon or too late. And yet, life is there, finished: the line is drawn, and it must all be added up. You are nothing other than your life. — Jean-Paul Sartre

We outgrow the earth

from which we grew

our early fame and infamy,

seeds flung by storms

into new, forgotten grounds.

Or, we compost our youth.

George Sand’s sturdy suits,

love affairs, tobacco smoke—

soil—for menopausal altruism.

Malcolm X’s white devils

for brotherly love’s final gun.

Mark Twain’s naive Finn and Jim

for the dark Mysterious Stranger.

Ram Dass’ Harvard spin with LSD

for Now’s inner God of Stroke.

My father’s four kids—cut losses—

for a Spirit World pardon of a line

of broken boys-turned-our-fathers.

My early LDS One True Church

for many truths, for Natural Mind.

For what blooms will you be known

after your long, weedy life?

Change the metaphor, Writer, Fisher,

hope your readers understand

your denouement and fall with you,

uncaught by the unknotted net.