Happy Birthday to MeIt's gotten late in all respects.The sun is low.
The summer's ending.When I wake tomorrow
Morning, I'll have reached age 66, and you,
Who always seemed so early, twitching,
Babbling like the youth you were, have
Fallen silent. Not a student anymore,
You grind your nose within an office,
Grind down all your prickly edges, to be
Grown up, corporate, dull, and, for my part,
My sight from down the wrong side
Of a telescope, I shake my head at all that's
Lost: another year, another season, someone
Who had brought me joy as I kept spinning
My cocoon, a pair of eyes wrapped ever
Tighter, falling backward toward a grave.
I flail.I cannot understand what I'm
Supposed to do.
Poetry by Lawrence Beck
Read 183 times
Written on 2019-09-13 at 10:28
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