When I do crazy things
You don’t have to know my reasons.
I could have lost my way,
Or, maybe I have found another,
Which you find hard to fathom.
When we were children
You wanted to be my friend
Because I saw things you wanted to see, but couldn’t.
So I would lead you, blind, but happy,
Through the realms of imagination.
You moved on, but I still live here:
It is no less appealing,
So dance with me, if you wish.
Senescence licks a disturbed light
onto his bedroom wall.
Sleep pitted by dark dreams
my pilgrim rises in good faith,
the pendulum of remembrance
striking a steady rhythm.
Octogenerian legs undone at night;
challenged by verticality
he leans heavy on the door
flexing old shoulders,
turning his head, slow, like this,
already unsure of his purpose.
Taking heart though (detected by his step)
he descends stairs unsupported,
collects his coat and keys,
and as simply as he can,
will have no more of this…
“I will have no more of this,” he says.