At sunset I turn off the
studio lights so I can dance
with the curtains open.
To a Van Morrison song
about god and jesus,
out the window a splendid
coral sunset silhouettes
the trees.
Halfway past sixty-eight
I remember a line from
a poet I loved,
I still can now
don’t let this old age
fool you…
a warm woman who died
too young, from a broken heart
I assert, that manifested itself
in a broken womb.
Her son in prison could not
come to her funeral.
He thought the easy money
of drugs was the way to go,
and took no heed, at least
not then, of her hard life
that afforded him the opportunity
to waste his. Her youth in the
high cotton of California’s central valley.
If I had had my way she is the one
poet who would still be with us,
she is not, but I am.
I turn up the music,
and ease the light switch down.
As surprised as anyone that I still
can, and as always I may pay later
for what I’m enjoying now.
But I still can and so I will.