on the day that marks
his fortieth year
a doctor informs him
that his arthritis is worsening,
digits more like twigs,
mashed potatoes for knees.
the news is no surprise,
more expected mail.
when the band begins,
the cymbal sizzle
like vegetables in a pan,
crow horn squawk,
he places the mouthpiece
between his chapped lips
knowing that any day
could be the last day now,
so he thinks of Coltrane
and blows, hard, all he’s ever known,
eyes of a gaggle of strangers,
ping-pong ***** in the dark.
Nov 19, 2019
Nov 19, 2019 at 5:47 PM UTC
on the day that marks
his fortieth year
a doctor informs him
that his arthritis is worsening,
digits more like twigs,
mashed potatoes for knees.
the news is no surprise,
more expected mail.
when the band begins,
the cymbal sizzle
like vegetables in a pan,
crow horn squawk,
he places the mouthpiece
between his chapped lips
knowing that any day
could be the last day now,
so he thinks of Coltrane
and blows, hard, all he’s ever known,
eyes of a gaggle of strangers,
ping-pong ***** in the dark.
Written: October/November 2019.
Explanation: A poem written in my own time, originally considered for my Masters manuscript. No changes have been made since this draft was finished. A link to my Facebook writing page can be found on my HP home page.
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