My Fifty-First Fall

My Fifty-First Fall

My fiftieth summer has passed too quickly

and I know there is a bitter old man waiting

out there beyond the equinox. I do not look

forward to his arrival. At this latitude winter

clings to the concrete like dog shit to a shoe.

I remember the abandon of my 10^th winter

and the simple joy of snow angels and hot

chocolate. I suppose the longer you live,

the seasons are not so much an adventure

as they are another marker of time slipping by.

I want to chase the moon across the night sky

until it hides behind the sunrise like I did

in my eighteenth spring, or make backseat love

to a girl while too drunk to remember her name,

like I did so many times in seasons long past.

Spring number fifty one waits in the wings

and I wonder if there is any wonder left;

something more than a tally of days and nights

expired. They say you are only as old as you feel,

I hope to God that is not true.

The skies are grey this morning, a neutral pallor

that blends with the concrete like a watercolor

painted without care. As I waited for the train,

in the distance, I heard the soft notes of a piano.

I hope the music doesn’t stop before my train arrives.

SMG