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Car Lights

Inner Glow

We grow old, we fade. The poet ruminates about the inevitability of Age which diminishes us, making us a shadow of our youthful selves. An yet the inner, spiritual, glow keeps us anchored.

I'm waiting. I’m listening. I’m growing old

like the man in a song who use to be

everywhere, a regular seeker of truth

and climber of mountains. Now, I’m barely here.

A deer eats one of my car’s headlights,

and it somehow stays lit, illuminating

the deer’s belly from within. I am that

headlight trapped in the deer, a reversal.

I’m stretching. I’m imagining. I’m taking

advantage of whatever sympathies

you may have had for a lonely old man

who may or may not own a radio

and a car. I’m glowing. I’m starting to fade.

I’m apologizing. I’m making amends.


Glen Armstrong holds an MFA in English from the University of Massachusetts, Amherst and edits a poetry journal called 'Cruel Garters.' He has three current books of poems: 'Invisible Histories', 'The New Vaudeville', and 'Midsummer.' His work has appeared in Poetry Northwest, Conduit, and The Cream City Review.

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