A poem I am working on about suddenly being old. I always had options in life. At 30 I still had plenty of time to achieve whatever goals or dreams I possessed. At 40 I could reinvent myself and begin my quest again. (In fact, I did!) Even at 50 I still had time, although joining the NFL or becoming an astronaut seemed less likely. But at 67 years of age? Most if not all of my life goals have to be deleted and replaced by achievable ones, based on my physical capabilities and estimated longevity. As I considered this one evening recently, this poem came out. Still needs some work.
I Still Have Coffee
The crisp breeze blows dry leaves into a spiral
scattering them down the road
as life had twisted my dried out soul
nudging me down that same
death laden path.
At my age so many of life’s diversions
have evaporated, expired.
Romance, sex, sport, aspirations and goals
All that endures is the cold wooden slats of
the park bench.
I suck frosty air into my lungs,
exhaling grey fog as I lift my head skyward.
Shredded inky clouds scratch the blue sky,
pigeons dance naked by my feet.
I sip the hot rich coffee
as the sun’s golden light seeps through the trees
And I smiled.
I still have coffee.