June 25, 2013 § Leave a comment

I sway to childhood songs
just below the surface
of all my other thoughts, and
on nights like this,
after having done little
more than merely exist,
the exhaustion
is difficult to explain

I suppose I could attribute it
to the rise
in temperature and humidity
combined with a lack
of air conditioning
but, I think it is more
directly linked to
becoming comfortable with
the lethargy that used to
make me so irate

it is inevitable, some say,
the natural path
to dust or fossilization
and, truth is, I see it

I see it in old women
who have reduced their worlds
to a manageable size –
a kitchen, a couch,
a small garden
just a step or two from the porch

or in ancient men
occupying benches
by the library
rubbing their heads
in remembered worry while
reverting slowly to infancy
rocking also
to lullabies that
can only be
their own

(c) 2013 Fred Whitehead


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