I sit at the table
An old man, an old table
The candle is old
The bread is moldy
The air is dry
The coffin rusty
I cough, dust flies
The budgie chokes and dies
I sit at the table
An old man, an old table
Wrinkled face and wrinkled hands
Broken empty plates planning their attack
Serrated edges glaring at my throat
I must seem easy prey, and old weathered goat
I sit at the table
An old table, an old man
Staring at the unplugged fridge
Tired of life I nod off, startled
By the dancing empty pill bottles
Performing artfully in harmony
With a passing tram
I sit at the table
An old man, an old table
I stare at an old torn photo
Young lovers in spring time trance
That bastard stole my girl long ago
He was me, before,
The kitchen table became old
It shows the hardship of aging, it can feel so devastating that we are no longer who we were before. I can feel the moment with this.
Hello there Casarah, see how great poets find each other! ! ! ! ! Hugs xxx
As an older man, I understood and enjoyed your poem. Thanks for sharing.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
This poem reminds me that as we grow old we are like crumpled paper still paper but not much good to write on! The imagery is brilliant and the translation of thought to written word is insightful and wonderful. I will be looking for more work from you.Good writing...
Thank you so much for your kind words! ! !
Thank you so much for you kind words! ! ! ! ! Cheers!