Dying Old Man

Dying old man,
you've made your life a pistol,
the rounds spent and smoking,
gathering at your feet.

Do you hang your full metal jacket
on the coat rack
there in the hall
at the end of the day?

I pass by it before
my blacken'd old watering can
drips my noose
onto the weathered floor.

I have to ask myself
how I made it to this point
where the oily black polish
rubbed itself silver

and the weathered floor
lost its lustre.
I can only think it was
time for me to limb up

with the oaks, sky,
lands, and seasons
and find a way to gently
sway in and out of the birds' nests.

Polish your pistol,
dear dying old  man,
and search out the ends,
riddled and scattered,

scarred and smoking,
gathering at your feet
while I ponder the world
beyond your doorstep.


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