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Last of a Dying Breed

(for M.T.) 

Some days you wake up
You look in the mirror
You’re afraid of the fire
Afraid of the furor
Your heart skips gaily 
Over each error
Like the bumps that curb your speed

You’re waiting for Friday
Waiting for June
That plan ‘round the corner
That golden moon
Cracks in the leather and grease on your spoon –
You’re the last of a dying breed

I used to know what
To say to my friends
Dusting off jokes
Or making amends
What do we care
which language offends?
The garden should welcome its weeds

But they’re retiring jerseys 
And burning books
TV won’t age you
If you hold on to your looks
You’re a man called Horse
Swinging from their hooks
Yes, the last of a dying breed

Isn’t it strange?
We were here just a short while ago
The petals of sweet innocence
Immune to the wind

Isn’t it strange?
You forget everything that you know
And the altar of experience 
Demands a list of your sins

Time’s a tilted table
Time’s a thrown fight
Time would have you go gentle
Off into the night
But time don’t bear in mind
Your deep appetite
And the force on which you feed

In the Army of Stagnancy,
It’s “don’t ask, don’t tell”
Just think of those ladies
at the poisoned well
And greet the humid weather
And bid fond farewell
To the last of a dying breed.

Copyright © | Year Posted 2017

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