“There are times all the time the same”
—Robert Creeley
for who is left to pick up
the conversation from the night
before in the park over chess
or years perhaps decades ago
that Sunday spring afternoon
over a beer and a whisky shot
when does the laughter stop
and the slow shambling walk
back to the children’s table begin
where the great nephews seen
only at holidays fear the silent
creature I have left to live within
what do I know of fear
this low-intensity anxiety
which even now gnaws at me
when I have nothing to fear
except a long life with its slow
descent into a lonely trifle
(February 11, 2024)
