How to be Middle-Aged

At five, all hope of progress gone,
I pour a drink and mourn, at once,
The passing of productive time
And hours between me and sleep.
I should have trimmed the hedge
Today. I should have either made
A million or composed a poem
Which would spiral up, as angels
Do, into the writer's wretched
Heaven, some assigned anthology
Each undergraduate must read,
But what I did defies description.
Sixty years of getting by suggest
I have nowhere to go. I had some
Dreams, but they are gone. The drink
Remains, the ticking clock,
And bed. I'll have another round,
And review years which passed by
Quickly, pass out in the living
Room, and, like a creature in a
Horror movie, I, at last, will rise,
At morning's light, to stagger on,
All hope of progress gone.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 31 times
Written on 2013-09-06 at 00:45

dott Save as a bookmark (requires login)
dott Write a comment (requires login)
dott Send as email (requires login)
dott Print text