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.