The passions of yesterday
Have surrendered me
To prisons of sense
And sensibility; I am
Wise and I am old
And I am tired
Most of all

And yet, sometimes
A glass of wine
And a favorite song
Will raise the hackles;
Then memories will
Flare, and so will I

The older man is
Dangerous in a dangerous way
Subtle and quiet and
Prone to declaratives
Rather than the fevered
Exclamations that so
Defined him in the day

I sit here and the fiery
Verse no longer writes itself;
It takes time and eyebrows furrowed
To join subject to the perfect verb;
To make sense of this insanity;
To even want to write it down.

And yet, time adds
A certain mellifluous
Flow to thought, and thought
Spawns the ancient poet’s
New endearments
And he realizes, though it
Takes a while, that damn!
He is still in love.

10/14/2015

Posted on 10/15/2015
Copyright © 2025 Ken Harnisch