At 64

 

At 64,

The pages no longer turn at will,

The knees no longer salute,

The mind carries on

As if yesterday mattered,

As if tomorrow began anew.

 

At 64,

Worries takeover

As tomorrow encroaches;

Surmise sets

On what tomorrow will be.

 

At 64,

The sunrise still finds its setting,

After today sings its songs;

Tomorrow’s edge of existence

Creeps in to cut another day into cliché.

 

 

 

© Jennifer A. Johnson, 2017, All Rights Reserved

Elysium Laundromats

Elysium Laundromats  Laundromat

 

When you live alone

It all comes together

At the Laundromat.

 

Money-grubbing washers,

Flippant dryers,

Crossword puzzlers and

The carnival ride centrifuges waiting for my quarters.

 

The envoy of filth makes a “final” appearance,

Only to be immersed in the clean waters of

Anabaptism.

 

O, fountain of youth,

You left me alone and

Benched,

Among the churning kilns.

 

© Cindy Wity, 2015, All Rights Reserved

Fable-ous Fifty-Eight

Fable-ous Fifty-Eight

Fifty-eight.
Plodding fifty-eight.
More laden with death now,
Then when I started long ago,
With hare intentions,
And, tortoise timidity.

Fifty-eight.
I turtle on,
Head down, face clay smacked,
Determined to keep moving –
Open sea or quaint pond in my future.
Was there a ever race?

Fifty-eight.
Not quite what I imagined:
The soft underbelly of youth remaining.
But, not untenable at the end of the day,
Armored in my recliner.

© Sally Paradise, 2011, All Rights Reserved