I once was young,
Now I’m an old man,
Whose time is memory,
Whose future is past.

I sit here with knuckles that ache from this pen.
There’s a light scrim of snow in December’s dusk.
A lone horse and a farmer’s spark light
Dominate my field of vision.
In between this motel and that warm farmhouse
Lay a half-mile of afternoon run away with light.
The barren howl of an idiot wind
Mumbles near words like a ghost.
The fence and slate of white sky given over to winter.
There seems no beginning or conclusion;
Just the warm, pallid air of the heating system.
A gun and a sheaf of poems probably no one will read-
Except maybe the police.
Outside, the horse’s mane is fluid to the wind,
The snow peeking through the window,
Hovers for a moment,
Then falls on past.
                               *
                    April 10 2024