The Shambles
One day I appear in the supermarket
in sweatpants and T.
Stained nocturnal, I drive my son to a concert,
then sleep in that T, eat breakfast in that T,
wear that T all day,
shamble into the night.
I have entered the middle,
the shambling center
that is the patched heart
of aging.
Days are thrown together,
nights hang on the backs of a chairs,
rumpled mornings enter the evening
unchanged.
Copyright © Eric Ashford | Year Posted 2019
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