17 June 2008

Old man one day (unfinished)

Within the yellow warmth of incandescent glow,
The mustached professor sat by window as snow
Fell gently on French countryside, garden and wood.
At his desk he sipped single malt before he could
Take a moment to sigh and wonder where his pen
Could have gone--not on the blotter nor in his vest.
Then instead his weary mind sought distraction lest
He not remember at all where he had set down
His faithful stylus. So notebook he seeks, a frown
And a furrowed brow upon his face. His journal
Where memories, ideas, pleasant or infernal
Could be let loose without affront or offense
On cream colored pages, his cursive letters so dense.
With Moleskine in hand, he still sought that pen to write
Thoughts that coalesced in shadowed mind on winter night.
Confessions, obsessions, anecdotes, text sublime
To write in shaky meter and unstable rhyme.
Papery fragile fingers rustled scraps and notes,
Pictures of now grown children upon whom he dotes.
He forgets the pen, for the moment anyway.
Photos and notebooks mental cobwebs swept away.

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