old rusted scissors
quilt maker’s
last true companion
loneliness
nugatory slumber…
in the night
when you reach
and
the warmth
is gone
the day’s words
of
sincere sympathy
seem
as empty
as
the pillow
besides
your head
and
when sleep
finally comes
night’s
cold arms
all too soon
embrace
each dream
and
memory
of
another’s soul
curled
next
to yours
isolated…
she said to the night
i’m alone now and frightened
the night’s voice whispered
age makes us feel alone but
it’s how life’s really traveled
postponements…
life’s faded
to-do list
held in hands
marred
by time
once strong line
discolored
by
hope’s tears
over the years
promises
made
and sought
now
for naught
an
old man
his mirror
a last friend
where do they come from…
each day
after work
as he sits
on
his
bar stool
he tells
himself
liquid lies
and
shares
aloud
with all
in earshot
the details
of his existence
how beer
has no effect
on him
though
he struggled
to return to his perch
after
a mandatory
biological respite
plumber
by trade
over
60 years
no retirement in sight
no
retirement funds
in sight
his political views
permeate the air
with
jovial comments
about
those he distrusts
until
his
usual dinner arrives
afterwards
he
departs
to complete
his definition
of
loneliness
serial dreams…
wrapped in their warm dreams
postponed lovers wait alone
for night phantom’s kiss
when alone at christmas…
dreams wrapping paper
that covered empty boxes
left by the curbside
