I gather dust

In my fingertips

Nails clawing at the split paint

A greyhouse raring to go

The sun beams

dazzle and burn my eye lids

like a dream that won’t let go

I can see Old Retired

still a young man

poised with ambition

toes curling

on the precapise of excitement

Boyish ignorance

doesn’t know the grip

of alcohol and chemicals

that will fracture and crack

Old Retired’s crow lines

and broken joints

That will leave him wheezing

bedridden and sofa bound

limped by shame

and endless blue

The boy only sees the sun

and it’s mirage

that paints a dance in feathers

flight and fancy

Warbling of tattered robin

Pirouetting amongst the

Bees making love with the honeysuckle

Oh, it’s going to be a beautiful life.

It’s got to be a beautiful life.