And Sam said


And Sam said “Lady, you shot me” and
he fell back and hasty he bled to death,
still in his 30s. Soon 70, I walk my way
slow and oldish as life and people have
hurt me hard but haven’t killed me, yet.
Now another spring comes dirty melting.

I observe how a caretaker rakes gravel
and withered leaves on a wet and rainy
parking lot that I cross over on my way
to a near supermarket. He is in my poem
now with his rake, but he doesn’t know.

Yesterday the sidewalks were nicely dry
and clean. At the same parking lot a wind
blew oak leaves in hectic rustling circles.
The leaves whispered hoarse and excited
in their last dance. Today they are soaked
and silenced, raked into piles and cleaned
away like dirt with gravel and sand.

I want to hold every moment in my tenderly
cupped hands but constant pains and saved
sorrows distracts me and I lose my sight and
forget. But I still remember how Sam shouted
“Lady you shot me” shamefully bleed to death.




This entry was posted in aging, alienation, become old, changes, courage, create life, desirers, fooled, grief, life and love, living with chronic diseases, Living with chronic pains, loss, lost trust, love story, memories, missing, morality, old age, past, Poetry, secret love, sexuality, spring, surviving and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply

Please log in using one of these methods to post your comment: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.