What's Wrong with September

The sun is setting. It's not half past
Seven. The equinox clearly is creeping
This way, and, oh, yeah, I turned 67
This morning. The summer, which
Always assures me that, though
I'm enveloped in darkness, I'll muddle
Along with my pacemaker pounding,
My fake metal hip holding me off
The ground, my leukemia lying in wait,
But always refusing to pounce, has
Stopped patting my back. I will be
On my own as the leaves begin dropping,
The temperatures likewise, and, soon
Enough, snow. I will mourn every one
Of the years I have lived as my toes
And my fingers go numb (from
The smoking?), and I'll mutter darkly
While in my garage to start two
Motorcycles which I will not ride
Until leaves reappear and my darkness
More clearly contrasts with the planet
I sullenly roam, and the equinox passes.
The days become long, and I don't
Contemplate 68.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 66 times
Written on 2020-09-14 at 02:48

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