A Twist of Neverdon’t
As age erodes memory, I,
devotee of feelings, offer no
gift more than words of warning.
Yet, in my temporal lobes, a road
veers off past a doe, who hears
only a muddled grunting; no. no. no.
Old folks drone on about the paths
they’ve trode, the tone is foreboding,
they show up always and all alone.
But here, the weeds are neon green,
the dark roads have yet to be drove.
No dent yet in fenders of experience.
No teen love lost or tenor low.
No. Here the oven is off, all games
contain redos, the learning is rote.
And so, what to say to this tenderfoot?
Not what I wish. Nor what will keep him
safe and blessed. Not word that averts
his impending grief. No. I should whisper
what he needs. Which is a slingshot
and a dragon, an ingenue to adore
(and not a word from me).