Silent aggressive irritation
can sometimes sneak up
on you, sending you snapping
at innocents in your path,
like when old Mrs. Miser
pinched my right butt cheek
to rush Wally ‘round backstage,
squeezing time during “Our Town.”
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Pecking at this computer keyboard procrastinatingly,
as before me, a digital, blue light page is blinking blank,
weary to work, my will shan’t coax my absorbed attention
from this wide open, woven window shade where cool breezes blow
through, from winds that flew in like bees from warmly sun-soaked trees,
our atmosphere’s six sighing, breathing in through their leaves.
My eyes wonder out on the grassy knoll below to witness
the last few greens we’ve lately seen softly but swiftly swaying
into bright colors before letting go, and slowly drifting
to the cold, frosty ground to rest, transform, before being reborn
anew.
I glanced over at myself
in a three-way mirror today,
and startled, I wondered,
who is that old man?
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