Don’t ask me to live for a far-off future,
the prospect of falling in love again
or someday grandchildren.
Don’t tell me to take walks every day like vitamins,
so I can be healthy enough for “them” and “then.”
I’ll walk when I want to
see lichen’s pale minty glow, dark leaves of oak.
The seasons are going to change, my children are going
to go. Don’t ask me to live for my daughter’s
daughters. No one knows who will die later or sooner.
Just for today, I am going
to walk to the gray-green falls, past turtles sunning
themselves in the shade by the faded footbridge.
Little dogs and women with strollers are going to walk past.
Two old Frenchmen are going to lean against the worn-in
railing and ask me
to take their picture. Donne-le a la jeune femme,
one is going to say, and the other is going to
hand me his camera, putting his arm around his friend.
I am going to write a poem about them.
Poem by Alyson Gold Weinberg
Alyson Gold Weinberg lives and writes in Washington, DC. She is a speechwriter, non-fiction author, playwright, and poet. Alyson is currently workshopping her new play, Object Relations. It’s a one-act, two-woman show set entirely in the therapy room that examines the nature of attachment, betrayal, creativity, and consent. Le Futur Proche appears in the play as written by the lead character, Samatha.