Middle Age
Now the mid-winter grind
Is on me, New York
Drills through my nerves,
As I walk
The chewed up streets.
At forty-five what next
At every corner,
I meet my father,
My age, still alive.
Father, forgive me
My injuries,
As I forgive
Those I
Have injured!
You never climbed
Mount Zion, yet left
Dinosaur
Death-steps on the crust,
Where I must walk.
Copyright © Roger Hadden | Year Posted 2014
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