Monologue at 49
I'm turning fifty in about nine weeks.
I've spent the last year-plus attending wakes
of relatives and friends and more-than-friends.
Sometimes, an old love-song suddenly ends
with a loud scratch of the 45's vinyl,
then, silence, both perpetual and final.
I can't breathe easy when I sleep. I weigh
more than I should. My aging heart
reels from the pain of a decades-old hurt.
I tread thorned pathways every bloody day.
Statistics of the moment: five months dry,
irremediably single. Shall I try
to shed some pounds or run three-mile races,
be thankful for the hard-fought modest graces
of late midlife, or early latterlife:
the battered green of the late August leaf?
Poetry by Thomas DeFreitas
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Written on 2019-04-14 at 08:39
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