as the father lifts his toe from
the starting block of his 75th year
and the son stumbles and gropes
past the midpoint of his 41st lap
toward an individual century
it is doubtless that neither of
them will make it to that
particular finish line.
no, it is certain that both
of them will come up short.
not a shame or a sham,
a slight or a shortchanging
just a statement of fact.
the father might come close
and for the sake of the son
it is hoped that he does.
The click and crackle of knee,
hip, and lumbar fill one’s ears
and thoughts with the rumors
of one’s mortality.
It is known that the father will
one day fade as sure as a sunset
and the son will melt into the floor
and stay there.
*
-JBClaywell
© P&ZPublications
Writing poems in the dark.