Theatre of One

I stood aside the other day, and looked
upon the superannuated man
I have become, though I considered it
the climax of the years
devoted just as caricature
of my anticipated self.

Walter Brennan's role inspired me--
Grandpappy Amos, with his elbows
tightly flaring, voice in octaves, ah
yet all remains unclear
until I learn to dodder--now just watch
I'll master that next year!

Strike out the days of grand design
and see across the rift
elusive images that worked
and played upon my open heart--
that let me sift
through their own store
of youth and wisdom,
caution and delight--
but never spoke of endings.

Why do you wonder, little boy?
What may I give you
that does not contain
the scent of death?
It may yet be the wondering...
what we old men have taken
from the years
that gives us license
to pontificate, or yet repine.

By cracky, youngster,
I just heard your mother
calling you to supper. I'll admit
I had to turn my face a moment,
indulging as I must
when mothers intervene,
that old intensive wish
that she were mine.
~