80% of the wait

in a section-eight corner apartment

that sits, low-slung on the hip

between beach town and beach town,

an old poet sits alone

in retirement

comtemplating an abandoned life…

 

sightless, he dreams of the beauties

who once flocked to his door

the words that flew

like fire

burnin’ up his typer’s keys…

he contemplates it all

now

with the clear vision

of a blind man who suddenly sees

his life’s mistakes only too clearly

and only a moment or two

too late…

 

80% of his vision

is gone

yet  now he sees

clearly

what was worthwhile

and what was wasted

as he sits,  mired in end-life’s musings…

 the losses

the art

an aphrodite to love him

the days of fortune

and near-glory

all vanished

as youth packed up

moving out when he wasn’t

paying attention to its

rapidly cycling plight…

 

he waits now

for the sound

of the postman’s

creaking truck

praying that today’s mail

will demand nothing from him…

 he waits now

for simplicity

a fresh zucchini

to fry and nibble on

with toothless gums,

and for a decent selection on his radio

from the classical music station’s

daily programming…

he waits

for letters typed

in giant font

that he can barely read

filled with a light, mindless banter

and fraught with memories

they sometimes 

oddly

bring him

a modecum

of sensory pleasure..

 

he waits

now

for an  acquaintance

or two

the ones still living or

just alive

enough

to still care 

enough

to knock on his shabby door

 to make sure he’s still alive…

he waits now too

 for the sister

who provides the bulk of his care

still, she offers up

the endless guilt

hoping to make him pay dearly

for all of his past sins

his crimes against the family’s good name…

yet, she is the one of his bloodline

who makes sure he is taken care of

enough

in his odd, older age…

 

he mostly

waits

for an october appointment

marking the day

they’ll lift the clouds from his eyes

 recouping some of his vision

through chancy surgical procedures…

 because he dreams

of  seeing the sidewalk

clearly enough

to hobble back down

the block or two to the beach

again

hoping to see

clearly enough

a pretty girl or two

from a rickety boardwalk bench…

 

but he’s not so blind

and often thinks

( knows it in his gut)

that waking up at all

in tomorrow’s harsh light

aged

creaking

and alone with his memories

 might still be

the real knee-slapper

of all knee-slappers

and

life’s cruelest joke

to date…

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About lindalou5150

as exercise or exorcism, i write...for the eyes of others, for my eyes and heart only, for the love and the rage, i write...to release the gamut of emotion...to tell the truth and say what's often thought but not written...
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