Four Answers Above

The thick face of the sky, marked with a blemish
And strung with stars like fungus, is awake,
Accepts my questions. What will satisfy
The urge to use these energies? “Life.”

Life didn’t. For years I trod the numbed path

To the Works, and in a tin-roofed office
Filed my days like paper; on Friday nights
I’d ask: to what will I go home? “Love.”

I didn’t. With the children put to bed,

The mortgage money loud in its jar, we
Bickered across the room; I slammed the door.
Will there be calm before the end? “Age.”

A lie. Age tortures me. My broken bones

Bent like gargoyles, I sit here sucking breath.
A cloud fumes on the sky; now I am old
And think on life, what will be mine? “Death.”

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© circa 1973-76