He sleeps in his chair all day.
We walk around him quietly,
smiling to see how deeply
he relaxes after his long night.
We understand that in his mind
he is not elderly, nothing has changed —
certainly not his adventurous spirit.
He doesn’t see why his body
can’t do what it’s always done.
He loves to run, to climb,
to push his limits, unthinking.
The torn ligament, healed now,
is almost forgotten. Just a hint
in the remaining, very slight limp.
Even now he’s careless of safety.
Came in the other night
without his collar: lost.
Better, of course, than strangling.
He’s still a handsome old bloke —
the same shining black hair
that I’ve loved since his youth.
And his passion for me is still fresh.
If I were to touch him now as he sleeps,
he would not snap at me; he would gaze up
purring loudly, his adoration never exhausted.
April PAD Challenge 23
Prompt: an exhausted poem
Some of these poems are autobiographical, some are entirely fictional, and some are a mixture of both. The intention is art rather than self-expression. I don't allow factual details to get in the way of poetry! (I do seek emotional truth.)
They are works in progress, and may be subject to revision without notice. Completed versions appear in my books. Nevertheless copyright applies to all texts found here.
Thank you for your comments. I read and appreciate them all, and reply here to specific points that seem to need it — or as I have the leisure. Otherwise I reciprocate by reading and commenting on your posts as much as possible.