by Thomas Zimmerman

Sinatra’s reeling on the stereo:
September of My Years. A mallard’s perched
upon your neighbor’s rooftop, unbesmirched
by river muck, green head absurd, aglow

in golden light. And you’re hung over—no,
still drunk. Odd duck, too young for fifty, so
in love with life, you’ve played the guru, searched
for God in all; abuzz and stoned, you’ve lurched

from laughing saintliness to half-assed sex
and back—enough to learn at last that most
of life lies in between. But don’t get too

damned wise. Your eyes are going. Daily, flecks
of you return to dust. Some hearing’s lost.
Right now, your wife is naked, calling you.


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