Sixtyfour
The charisma of his car eclipsed ambition,
By a margin that defined his wife's contempt,
It became a precursor to superstition,
That he'd lose some race from which he was exempt.
As his ego baulked at masculine pretentions,
While his Missus cringed at alcohol-free beer,
The addiction of his sixty-four abstentions,
Were the prison-wall-marks chronicling his years.
He had dreamt mis-matching figures prior to midnight,
But retirement loomed resplendant as his soul,
And some whisper that a risk gives birth to insight,
Made him seek expanded knowledge as a whole.
The excessive engine ate acceleration,
Like an orphan who'd forever ask for more,
But pathetic was his brief emancipation;
When he hit a bus, at only sixty-four.
Copyright © Serena Waite-Shores | Year Posted 2005
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