Benched Poem by Ken Moore

In the Gloaming of life's last era
A futile finger in times dike
both wicks ashen gray
quiet comfort leers on passers by

daydreams Peer back to A squandered youth
background chatter from A lucid adolescent
The quiet breath belongs to A cherry picked memory
A romance of scorn far too weak to rise

grounded leaves from summer, now colored crinkle by
clinch and neglect winters tone, toward the suns caress

Confidence, views A stage of first impression judgments
Grin, The farce of an awkward ages glance to pity the aged
born too late to have wonders of their own