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. |
