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Mourning For Myself
written by: Frank C Modica
It’s my 67th year; the clouds
look tired and wrinkly.
Tonight is the sixth day of the sixth month,
the moon careworn like me.
My shoulders complain,
I clutch my weakened knees.
Cloud covered moon hides truth-telling for this silly old man,
mocks my foolish comb-over to hide my baldness.
Late spring, my ears too lazy, straining to hear,
I am quick to ignore advice, offer my own words.
Holding onto too much middle class comfort,
I walk off emotions, ignore life losses.
The burdens of age have thinned my hair.
Retirement too late to save my glory.
Though I am a published poet,
an esteemed teacher, accomplished cyclist,
pigeons scatter when they see my tan fedora,
young children cry when I try to greet them.
Old age, my constant companion, drops
by for another visit, shakes my hand.
My thumb ache, fingers tingle at his touch,
ears muffled, conversations murky at his words.
but I have my pens and notebooks with me,
in a pinch I write on backs of envelopes.
Days, months, years march in procession,
drawing out words for 10,000 poems.