Time chips away
At memories
Falling away
As flakes of rust
From old iron
As the years proceed
The man I was
Drifts further
And further
Into the shadows
Until, in the mirror
There is only
The man who is
As the years proceed
The man I was
Drifts further
And further
Into the shadows
Until, in the mirror
There is only
The man who is
In countenance: fierce
But whose hearts
Have the gentleness
Of brushed cotton
Come play with me!
Come play!
So I put my words away
My oh-so-many words
Take out my camera
And play with a sphere of letters
Artist and creator
Of worlds fantastic
And unimagined
By lesser gifts, as mine
Frustration
As true in art
As in life
Nostalgia
Mixed with quirkiness
Leavened by wit
And insight
“I hope at least one of them is,” I dead-panned.
She giggled, “Only in a good way!”
An image a white man made
Which earned white man’s awards
In a museum of white man ways
A monument to a way that was