Monologue at 49

I'm turning fifty in about nine weeks.
I've spent the last year-plus attending wakes
of relatives and friends and more-than-friends.
Sometimes, an old love-song suddenly ends
with a loud scratch of the 45's vinyl,
then, silence, both perpetual and final.

I can't breathe easy when I sleep. I weigh
more than I should. My aging heart

reels from the pain of a decades-old hurt.

I tread thorned pathways every bloody day.

Statistics of the moment: five months dry,
irremediably single. Shall I try
to shed some pounds or run three-mile races,
be thankful for the hard-fought modest graces
of late midlife, or early latterlife:
the battered green of the late August leaf?





Poetry by Thomas DeFreitas The PoetBay support member heart!
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Written on 2019-04-14 at 08:39

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one trick pony The PoetBay support member heart!
As in so many of your poems the seeming ease of writing belies the structure beneath. It's a pleasure to read, though the subject is what it is.
2019-04-15