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.