From 'Dating at Fifty' a collection of poems about the quest for love in middle age
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I stood in the dark
On a warm spring night
Waiting for the bus
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I awake from a dream
To a symphony.
The base line is carried
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You will get no roses from me:
Over-tended, overfed, pruned, and powdered,
Cut with shears in leather gloved hands.
No showy blow-bag flowers
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Long after I had stopped living there
I came back to the house to see my ex-wife, my ex-family.
It was a warm sunny afternoon
And there in the overgrown grass of the front yard
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The other day
My newborn son
Tried to tell me about oblivion.
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One Sunday Morning
Down at the mini mart
On a chilly, misty, day
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Farmer Brownshirt works in silence
with only the rustling wind in the corn
And the calling of birds in the trees
To intrude on his dark and roaring thoughts.
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The birds had left the week before
But the leaves had lingered
Soaking up the last of the golden light.
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A poem I found at a hotdog stand
It is nine thirty on a Sunday morning.
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