Tuesday, February 16, 2016

February 16, 2016 - Old Curmudgeon


Out in the field,
I look crooked and bent.
I’m gray and colorless,
and parts of me are broken,
torn a bit, really,
smashed to hell.
Hanging and blowing in the wind,
clap clap clapping against a wall.
And there’s rust, too,
of course, always rust.
And broken glass,
sharp and wavy and bubbly,
the kind artists look for
because they don’t know it’s all we had.
The old is new to them
on conditions, of course.
Hothouse pansies, each and every one.
But anyway, there are holes,
some in the walls,
some in the roof,
some in the logic.
Yet other than that,
I feel quite fine,
strong, in spite of my shortcomings,
weathering another winter.
I could do it blindfold
with one hand tied behind my back.
I’m a match for anything.

The old curmudgeon.

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