Enero, 15

It’s the odd minded walking, the toddle
of untrained legs, bent, inebriated,
old and infirmed walk we crave, a reason
to tip ones hat like a tuckered cowboy
entering town after a long days ride.
Catch it in your great-granddad, let him say
it’s his tired old bones, spot it played out
by your spouse, whistle for their strange dancing,
a ballet only one who loves may see,
take that stutter-step movie to your grave.
It’s a walking we each carry inside,
one for which we tally each a steep price,
pray someday we will earn the aged right
or give birth to drunken children, or drink
ourselves to oblivion to achieve.

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Author:

A day is not done, until it's filled with words.

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