An Evening Poem

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My Glass Is ‘Bout Empty Now

to see a blue sky again
or a butterfly on wing
my eyes see but not these
to hear a sweet song
or the wind through the trees
my ears hear but not these
things have changed
all is rearranged
my senses caged

to smell the morning flowers
or the salt in an ocean breeze
to feel the soft fur a baby rabbit
or the soft blanket of cotton
my hands feel but not these
things have changed
all is rearranged
my senses caged

a wrinkle in my mind
a crack in my bones
sagging flesh hangs
dull red eyes squint
clogged ears gasp
the air seems thick
the ground harder
the water tasteless
and my glass
is just about
empty now

well maybe one more…

The Storeroom

in the storeroom
you find many things
curious things,
new things
old things
things forgotten
like on the third shelf
on the far wall
behind the canned peas
or on the bottom right shelf
way in the corner
tucked so tight
to wall that it can
be barely seen
if on your belly

some of these things
look dangerous
some look safe
and some look
right back at you
on the left wall
hung close to the door
is an item that I
can’t describe
out of fear I guess
or maybe it’s jealousy
a wicked thing it is though
top left in toward the back
it has been sitting
right there now
over twenty two years
out in the open
peering down
like a gargoyle
at it’s post

the past residents
surely must
have seen them
could it be I am the first
no, not likely
maybe the first
to speak of them
odd and queer
things go on here
and now
convinced
of the connection
I write to tell
my tale of
those things
in the storeroom
a letter which may be
my last, imperfect in
it’s grammar
and many details
left out to save your sanity
and my life

I am praying

do come soon
the season
is changing
and the hills are
magnificent in
their colors
we will have such a pleasant visit
don’t let my earlier words worry you
I must go now
hope to see you this
time in a week

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