Sunday, February 28, 2016


Every day I toil
To turn the sterile soil
Of raw imagination
Into tinsel or shook foil
Until age's turmoil
Beats, defeats me.
And then I walk a while -
A camera with a smile -
Despite the aches and pains.
And then the arthritis -
Brutal in my feet,
Bestial in my hands,
Barbaric in my fingers -
Makes me retreat.
Like a crippled veteran
I can no longer run;
Although I dream of it
Night after night -
Not fast,
But with purpose,
Topping the hills,
And gliding down -
As I did back then,
When we jogged for miles,
Yes, miles, again and again,
Around the old town,
In the late summer heat,
Face concentrated
Into a frown,
When I led for a while
But faded and fell back
Into the bare-footed pack,
Always at the last turn,
Overtaken by the elite
With their silver feet,
But I wished them well 
Because we were a team.

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