old poetry.

for 5 o'clock pm weekdays.

What's old

ain't old to me anymore.

I walk the same

mud-spilled path to the

mailbox

in the same Bullwinkle

slippers. Slump,

my feet rising in the air

like maple seeds,

on the couch my uncle

gave me before he died.

And then an old woman

appears out of the shadows

her too small 36C-

Victoria's Secret, push up bra,

the one covering the bottom of her breasts,

flies open like wings.

Now they are both left uncovered,

like Rocky and Uranus

and the simmering  sky they boil in.

Reviews

[Cory Barrett]

Let'm fly, I got no
Where to be
And this minute
Is one I've not
Yet lived

[Terpsichore]

Those 'Bullwinkle slippers' become a great comfort through the ages; as for old, that's just the irrelevant ticking of the clock.

Will had it right I think. 'The sixth ages shifts into the lean and slipper'd pantaloon, With spectacles on nose, and pouch on side.'

Super writing. T

[W.k.kortas]

Well, you had me at Bullwinkle (Jay Ward is a unjustly forgotten genius), and the easy, seamless way you intermingle childhood memory and the decidedly unchildlike puppies in the next-to-last line is just brilliant. Ah, the things that live in the shadows.

[BLACKBEARD]

This is a great poem . I like the imagery constructed by the use of your words

[K. Louis]

you're so f*****g awesome!! I miss you.

[....................]

A wonderful write that left me smiling and blushing at the same time. I was not expecting that ending.

[jacob erin-cilberto]

oh my goodness, what an image.

this will take me days to recover from that vision---

too well exposed.