My Old Age
I will be
an old man
only children
understand.
They will
find my door
at the end
of a path
lined with
colored rocks
and thistles,
drawn by
the sane life
our weary
neighbors
have condemned,
by my bright
clear eyes
and rumpled
clothes,
my face
with veins
and jagged holes
of missing
wayward teeth.
Come in,
I bid you welcome,
each and every
one.
Fellow humans,
I hail thee.
My window
looks out upon
a strange
and distant land,
my hearth
is warmer
than the street.
I brew a tea
of ancient
tattered pages,
and read
their words
in steam.
I have no radio
or telephone,
but see my
lovely broom,
see her smiling
in the corner
amid an avalanche
of worn out hats,
see her bristles
full of bright
new stars.
October 9, 2005
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