OLD MAN POEM

i am one hundred and fifty years old already
my bones ache and my cane is brittle
i mope about the house and write old man poems
to the sound of dust on the shelves
i drink my soup without a spoon
and look back on the golden days that never were

i take cold showers and hour long baths
my friends call from time to time
but most times i can’t figure out
how to answer the god damn telephone

the mail man, he knows me
margaret on lane six at walmart, she knows me
the people through the phone, they listen to me
talk about my life, my life, my life
and the war, the war, the war
and the garden, the garden, the garden
and my wife, my wife, my wife

the edges of memories need mending
but i hold close in my mind
a picture of Sicilia, in her prime

the television and i have become too familiar
he reads the words of the stories to me
i put him on mute and read the words
i listen to the rain hitting the cluttered storm drains

i breakfast at the crack of dawn
i drink coffee and eat very little
lunch at eleven
dinner at four
at seven i turn off the t.v.

i pray beside my perfect bed
i lay me down to sleep
and i wonder
if when i close my eyes
it will be the last time

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2013

READ “MADNESS IN RESPONSE TO MINGUS”

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