XVII

In the City of My Old Age

In the city

of my old age,

I love the wood

not the steel,

the stones

not the bricks, 

the streets

littered with debris;

the bare limbs,

dead grass,

fallen leaves,

blue skies,

after the rain

has gone by,

when it’s chilly

and breezy outside,

that long, gray time

before spring arrives.

Down by the pond

the crabapple tree

did not green

this year,

did not purple,

did not red,

and now it stands,

bare futile fingers

upraised,

a winter tree

in the midst

of spring,

a station where

black birds

perch

and shit

and wait

with bloody

beaks.

On a cool day in the woods

I hear the woodpecker pecking,

my feet on dead leaves crunching,

breeze high in the trees blowing,

water over rocks flowing,

dogs in the distance barking,

birds on their branches singing,

squirrels all around me digging,

and myself as I’m gently breathing.

Then there’s countless crows a swarming,

with their loud, incessant screaming,

and that’s all I can hear for a long time –

so much for my tranquil outing.

Many things

have changed

in this old world

since the spring

when I was born,

but the redbud trees

still bloom magenta,

there are willows,

cherries and pears,

and I’m really glad

I learned to see them

before it’s my turn

to wither and die.

I am a happy old man

but it’s funny

how close

to the surface

the sadness is.

All it takes

is hearing

10cc’s

“I’m not in love,”

or E. L. O.’s

“Telephone Line”

to transport me

back to the 70s,

which were not

the best of times;

but then

at least no one

had died yet,

everything was

still possible,

nothing was

fucked up too bad,

and youth

was on

my side.