The Professor

I am old, my body heavy
The weight of decades
Pulls me earthward;
Solid bones like mountain ridges,
Stiff muscles like an ancient ox.

Once was a time
I gave no thought
To waking or sleeping.
The point was the work,
My life was the work.

Incidental, everything else
Clothes– incidental
Food– incidental
Car– holds together
Haircut? My hat's all I need.

The shining quest, the fire,
Which I with dogged steady steps pursued,
Was knowledge: A treasure
To be both won and shared,
Spread to the furthest corners.

Who is man and whence comes he?
Ancient peoples, alive as we think ourselves to be,
Worshiped, warred, wed, and worked.
The pieces of their lives remain and
They themselves remain, so we should see.

The years that fell with dust
Upon their kitchen tools
Never choked the fires
Burning from their hearts. And so
I chose my place beside their hearths.

Years have not been so kind to me.
They press upon my lungs
To keep the stale air in
So that my very blood
Circulates confusion in my brain

Betrayed by blood, now water
Mutinies to jump the sinking ship;
Brigand keen to forge a blazing trail,
It burns my body as it goes,
Making purple limbs stiff as wooden boards.

Now blood, then dust.
My groaning body mountain
Will fall and turn to dust,
And will the fire below
Burn strong throughout the night?