A once marathoner body has widened
waist thick, scalp shiny under retreating
tufts, jaws drooping, a general sack of man.
over time, he left being desirable behind.
fortune let him dodge the far more brutal
measuring reserved for the other sex,
but the swells of their shapes hold or held
at least the power of making, generating.
all he has ever birthed: a wider belly,
grown only more girth, suckled failure.
and now, mid-50s, he lacks substance in
that place most damning for a man to be
thin, in lists of the done: the climbed, the
overcome, the acquired, the hired or held,
compelled or manufactured, especially the
compensated. contemplating what remains
to be created that might justify a journey
that leaves such slim evidence it happened,
he extinguishes the light, and hopes that
sleep will at least leave dreams in his wake.



2 thoughts on “Opus

  1. So beautifully composed! You are capturing a mirror image to my fleeting ideas of self and body and time — the self (that thinks it is a body and what a body has done or will do) is forced in the cruel dance of the seeming life journey to separate and realize, I am not those things and time doesn’t touch what is true. Easy to write, harder to live.

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