I was told not to write old man poems
you're only thirty he said
but I'm sitting alone watching TV -
tonight I did my laundry
the whites
I pulled my shirts from the hamper
and smelled the scents from each day
it's a good smell
a fragrant history
and a thought comes to me -
I should have somebody with me
somebody should be here
to smell this cologne with me
someone should be here
to watch me pour soap into the machine
to watch the clothes spin in the drier
someone should be here with me
to sit on the counter of this washateria
and talk with me about how the day went.
But I'm alone.

I was told not to write old man poems
you're only thirty he said
but I feel a stiffness in my joints
and at the end of the day my back hurts
and I lie soaking in a warm bath with a book
and when I walk I hear my knee and hip
as they grind and strain with the movement
and my wrist throbs whenever I put pressure on it
and my vision and hearing slip further into the past -
I find myself driving down the road
wondering what my destination was
or I'm in the kitchen
or in my study or the closet
and I don't remember why I'm there.

I was told not to write old man poems
you're only thirty he said
but in the evening I sit on the porch
alone
where the air is cool
and my stereo plays baroque classics
softly
Pachelbel's Canon in D is my favorite for a night like this
and though I don't smoke
I think I should
I think a man sitting alone on his porch
thinking thoughts such as mine
should have a cigarette in his hand
should watch the glow of the tip in the night
but I watch the moon
and tonight it is full and low on the horizon
and there is a gaping hole next to me
a hole where a woman should be
with my arm around her
there's a gaping hole in my heart
I don't think it's the most original thing to say
but it works for me
a gaping, throbbing, painful hole in my chest
a vacuum sucking in all the pain
of all the sorrows from all the years
on what should be a beautiful, peaceful night
a fall night, Pachelbel, and a full moon
a cool rustling through the leaves
and the sound of cicadas
are all I have for company.

I was told not to write old man poems
you're only thirty he said
but tonight the pain, the loss, the loneliness
are taking their toll.