In the distance 
far off room
Mr. Clock chimes
reminding me that 
I am aging
not by moment 
nor by accident 
but by hour 
and these days 
which used to 
carry such weight 
now only matter
when I hear
Mr. Clock call
another hour gone

The delicate balance 
no more seesaw 
or tipping point 
I am fulcrum
I am equilibrium 
a calm sea
a patient laziness 
afforded by wisdom 
that sunny porch
in late day
low west sun
shines through trees 
like a flashlight 
made from a 
million little fireflies 
I am one 

I do
I remember 
recall and 
now realize 
that one 
single moment 
can stretch 
like bubblegum 
and pops 
just like 
it too 

A jazzy rainy
slow mountain morning 
when the whiskers
of snares meet
the snarls of
traffic and I
up here in
the crow’s nest 
that’s my window 
peer down soaking 
in soulful blues
and woeful rain 
oh these quiet 
and placid days 

This is what 
I imagine a
man feels who
has returned from 
the silent war
a quiet erosion 
caused by lapping 
not by sea
but by going 
round and round 
and round the 
same old track
waiting to find 
the finish line