My brain is on, the motor runs
But thoughts are turned to silly puns
I grasp at words as from me flee
malicious darts of untamed glee.

Here in my middle ages, I look at the young men, as they court
and the young girls, as they are courted
they are so full of life, and so empty of wisdom
and yet, so full of life
I feel my life waning
I feel the life draining, out of the pond, and into the river
But the old codger on the street-corner
craggy, dried man, drained and empty
He cheers the young men on
with a toothy grin and a wink he nods at the boys as they follow
that girl down the street with their eyes, and their hearts.
the old flower-seller lady urges the young man
and she watches the young girl, and sighs
remembering her own first rose, brought to her by a young man, perhaps just like this one
brought with a stumbling shyness, by a boy who knew she loved flowers
but didn't know why
and didn't care why
except, that something about that flower
might make her think of him, and feel happy when she did
because while he wanted her to think of him, he wanted her to be happy too
it would be another 47 years before he would understand that he really just
wanted her to be happy
and said so, with his last breath
She sighs, knowing this is how it is
and knows how to be happy watching another boy
making a fool of himself without knowing why
because he will know why, when it becomes important, and in the meantime
will do what he can without knowing why

And I, here in my middle ages, still worry about what I don't know
I worry about what I can no longer do
I feel, here in my middle ages, stuck in the middle
neither wise, nor full of youthful vigor
but I watch the codger winking
and the flower-lady sighing her sighs
and watching them wink and sigh, I lose my fear
Time will pass me by, and in its passing
will teach me to wink, and sigh, and to not miss being young
and stupid
and so full of life that there was no room for knowing
why the happiness that sits by my side
sipping her coffee with me, watching me, watching them,
knowing that I watch, and think, happy with the show of things she cannot see, going on in my mind
knowing why her happiness is so important to me.
I hope I tell her in a breath sooner than my last
I hope to tell her with a wink, that her happiness is more important than mine
I want to hear her sigh, before it means she misses me

I do not wish to sweep this kitchen floor

unless, by my swishing broom, I can sweep you off your feet as well

The scrubbing of the counter-top holds for me no interest

except, in inspecting its shine, I can chance to see the brilliance of your smile

gazing back at me, in love like when our vows were spoken so pure they felt like gifts from the angels.

The compost, which fills the corner bin, I’d leave it there to regrow as it will

but my heart hopes by taking it out to the pile in the corner of the yard

I let the anger I felt, the shame of having passed another day, not being the man you promised to belong to, of not being able to protect you from such pain

as we have felt sometimes

I’d take that compost out, if even one moment’s pain went with it

I feel no love for a fresh scrubbed ***

except, sometimes, I think about how scrubbing feels, and how radiance exudes from behind a fresh scrubbed child’s face

Because the mere whisper of radiance, regardless of its place or intent

makes me think of you, with that smile, and that heart that cannot hold inside its compassion

and it leaks out of your eyes in beams, and runs down your cheeks like tears

but it is not tears, and what and who it touches beams with being loved

I’d scrub any number of pots

for one drop of that radiant joy to fall on me, for the way your love feels on my chest, when you smile standing there held, where I cannot see you

but I can feel you, and know exactly how you look.

I put the leftovers away, tucked away for another day

and I wrapped a secret inside, carefully hidden

I hope you find it, but you might not

I kissed a morsel, and left that kiss for you to find

and for you to feel

and for somehow, even though it wasn’t quite right

for you to know, that I swept tonight, for you.

And hoped with each stroke of my broom, to catch you by the heel, and catch you in my arms

and deliver a matching kiss, directly to your lips

For that moment, I would sweep our kitchen floor, all night, for eternity.