His skin was like loose Saran wrap
that no amount of topical
cream could smooth away its wrinkles.
His skeletal bones creaked, muffled
by an old squeaking rocking chair
he gently, rhythmically rocked
to singsong poetry he wrote
nearly fifty odd years ago.
Each iambus spoken aloud
curiously matched his rocking:
the short syllables went backward
the longer ones ever forward.
Suddenly his recital stopped
and the chair went still and silent.
Copyright © Albert Ahearn | Year Posted 2013
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