Another Hour Gone

Achille Glisenti

Achille Glisenti

The years

trim a man to size

Squeeze the juices

from out of his fruit

till all he tastes is pith

What spring there was

in his step’s gone limp

The ballads he sings

no longer seduce

but only amuse

his peers 


He’s paid

in his old age

to feed pigeons

The park bench prop

reliving by imagination

childhood on the swing

off which he once fell

to slowly walk away

let childhood go

become a man

self made

“I’m not confused. I’m just well mixed”

~ Robert Frost


About Peter Notehelfer

I'm a retired people person who now finds the time to watch the little details of the world without worrying about being watched by anyone . . . I live on an Island north of Seattle with my wife named Ellen, a yellow dog named McGee, a yellow cat named Gatzby, and four fine chickens . . . I read fiction, bake bread, smoke salmon, and fish whenever the weather allows . . . Oh, and yes, I try to write a poem every day simply to avoid senility!
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