Friday, January 11, 2013
White
spider webs, black termite dust.
Chicken
roasting on red hot coconut husks.
Children
roam the city trumpeting their youth;
banging
out their lust for life
on
metal signs and metal drums.
With
betel nut smiles and
barely
a glance they pass me by;
a
sterile specter of glory stumbled.
They
have no knowledge, concern, or care
for
those of us who’ve moved on in years.
I
miss that rhythm, I miss those days.
Exalting
life, confessing love.
The
only cadence I offer now,
in
greeting yet another year -
an
awkward wave of fretful hands
and
my rotting shoes all torn to hell.
-
Just a peasant