• Rate this poem
5
Sending
User Review
5 (2 votes)

Mourning For Myself

written by: Frank C Modica

@fcmodica53

 

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.

Frank C Modica

Frank C Modica

Frank C Modica is a retired teacher who taught children with special needs for over 34 years. His writing is animated by interests in history, geography, and sociology. Frank’s short story “Homemade” was selected as an Honorable Mention in the Midway Journal 2017 - 1000 Below Flash Prose and Poetry contest. His work has appeared in Slab, Heyday, Cacti Fur, Black Heart Magazine, The Tishman Review, Crab Fat Literary Magazine, and FewerThan500.
Frank C Modica

Latest posts by Frank C Modica (see all)

Read previous post:
That Which Is Gold, a poem written by Shelly Wilson at Spillwords.com
That Which Is Gold

That Which Is Gold written by: Shelly Wilson @ShellyWilsonDQK   Gold is found in many gems That often steals the...

Close