morning by morning
I see the same old face
in the mirror
hours upon hours
I write and rewrite a poem
that grows old
night after night
I go to bed exhausted
with a dream deferred
weekly routine
the garbage man collects
my unpublished poems
months gone by
gray hairs pop up
on my head
year's end
I step into the same river
twice
New Year
the same phoenix flaps its wings
in my dream
Jan/Feb 2011 issue of Sketchbook
A Room of My Own: Normal Life, A Soap Bubble
-
my friend turns
forty the age his father died
he mutters
*the Grim Reaper haunts me*
*like my walking shadow*
breaking news
at the first light of spring daw...