Demarcated Measures

Pumping gas I set my sights for the double zero.

It makes it easier to balance the checkbook

I tell my avidly observing daughter.

I aim for the same on the elliptical,

the digital display counting

minutes, even seconds, of movement.

Each day of exercise, I make notations

on the monthly calendar affixed

to the bedroom wall.

Lists of tasks at work or home, written,

rewritten, checks for those completed.

As if maturity, productivity, even

personal evolution, can be proved,

by graphite marks on scraps of paper

all headed for the recycling bin.

This is what I do:

make some tiny mark

somewhere anywhere

that denotes I was here,

that my meaning made sense,

was measurable,

was lasting.

I have unremitting desire

for demarcated measures:

childhood

youth

parenting

post-parenting

inevitable decline

It does not disturb me

that I am already

halfway through.

It is enough to feign

knowing where I stand

in this segmented life.

(cc) Karen G. Johnston