Oct 182014
Of course retirement's a prize,
The wreath at the end of the race,
A box filled with Time, all sizes--
Days of unhurried pace.

Your less-firm face...is expressive;
Each grin encompasses a grimace.
Castrophes fade to comeuppance.
Checkers is better than chess.

The primrose promise of a rainbow
Feels suspect, a joke out of Duchamp;
However blurred the fiddler's bow, 
More sit than stomp. 

Age's bitterest despairs
Lie whittled to grey shavings;
Our afternoons to quiet raving
Contract in isolate air.

We know the hourglass' quicksand brocade
Will catch us in its wrinkles;
That we will not be saved
From the sinkhole.

Life seems, not sears--
We have veered wearily to where
At a voyeur's balustrade we stare
And leak no tears.

Aggravated vanities are all that's left
Of what had swelled.
Reality wriggles, unbereft,   
--Will not be quelled.


Sorry, the comment form is closed at this time.