Old age besieges us all,
though we hide behind dusty curtains to keep the day asleep
and stretch these small hours longer.
Our pink Mohicans waste away and thin white spikes
prosper and betray our play
The face I see is not you
my brown-eyed frog,
my rosy pink country girl,
my stubborn flaming filly.
Oh true that youth is wasted on the young
and hard-fought wisdom
is not welcome in a city of dreams.
Poor fortitude, you are a thorn in the side of lean and easy vigour.
I set aside my earthy foot stool today
and wish my body to ignite in thunderous pace and passion;
like you my boy I leopard like run
(stumbling heart skips beats,
I hear the weakened chord and hum;
one day my cracked soles will no longer skip this spangled rope at all.)
but for now, here I lie,
under a quarter moon,
with dusty curtains ajar
and a cauldron of memories,
I peer outside
and feel my barren belly ache for lost love
and absent babies.