Lines
I won’t grasp at youth as some
Inhale gasp or rasp at it now
My soon more brittle lungs or knees won’t allow it
Before I fall old down to desperate breathy phone calls
For sisters or brothers or friends who might say they knew me well
Oh, the drama
Though I am NOT here
Not yet
I am just old
-er
/////
My face has lines, lines of times that were mine
Stretched for miles crow dance foot’ed over earned broken sidewalk cracks
(while skipping those that might break a mother’s back … of course)
Lines that are mine
Earned
My eyes
Still blue
Though jaded
Hover suitcases
In new darker hue
No
Steamer trunks
Packed of heavy things and of lighter flighty ones
That I gladly rummage through
On the high seas
With no pick and choose of the right outfit for today’s dance
On deck
Just whatever I come across at first glance
As I wore them all
/////
My face has lines in the letters
Of times passed
Packed neatly in a pocket in the lid
Some envelopes still in tact
With a name dear
A corner stamped
Of the U.S. Mail
Or maybe of even international exotic
Or shoved crumpled
Under the lid
Of that trunk
In corners
But never forgotten in the crumple
Under gifted underwear
To have me presentable in emergencies
In case the ship runs aground
(why I never stepped on those mother’s cracks)
Packed
Steamer trunk of lines
/////
Lines
Lines in bad poems of times
Earned
Good or bad
Worse or better
Better or worse
(I did say bad poems right?)
Lines in letters
That keep writing themselve’s
/////
No
I won’t
I won’t grasp, gasp or wheeze at youth
As some
I have lines
On my face
That are mine
Now
Well
Gladly
Earned
Lines that keep writing themselve’s
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