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July 6, 2004 - A poem about Age, Flesh & Bone

Ache and Wane

I’m not,
looking after myself.
Feels like my head’s been turned
inside out. One eye glued and
squinted like a drawstring bag
staying up until the late time.
I’ve been sleeping like a juggler on call
with fumbling hands that drop the ball.
Seeing steps to come but not gone by
auto piloting through the chore of day
This weariness now comes as standard
for these dry bones who need to rest
just can’t seem to concen ——–


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