Old

I'm old.

She might have graduated

Back in May,

Escaped the local university

Degreed and dangerous.

She looks at me

From under dark sharp bangs

As if she knows my mother,

Like the elder woman

Who believes she knows me well

And calls me by another name

And hugs me every Sunday

At the riverwalk.

She slides somehow

Onto the stool beside me

And starts to talk.

The city's full of fools

Careening wildly,

Unbalanced by their piled hopeful stories

Fancied up as holy facts.

Some time,

Perhaps some night,

They tip,

A human wreck,

A curled up roly poly,

Sisyphus determined

By the boulder

At the bottom of the slope.

- 4/17/25