Old Soldier Poem by Cleveland W. Gibson

As I grow old I notice
the days talk to me. All
stand for good times
yet some need
sympathy. Monday
comes to talk of new
things or perhaps, to
steer my way. Then
Tuesday will usher in a
simple idea, alas, one I
know must stay.
Wednesday is like a
sweet child but
Thursday spells out a
treat. But unlucky
Friday's rants about
number thirteen, a
curse that leads to
Hell. Maybe we'll all
end up there, but who
can ever really tell?
The lively months leap
by so fast they make
me blink. Julius
Caesar's death in
March, now that makes
me think. June: I
sweat, August: I
quiver. Sweet
December: rock- hard
ice, no time to sail the
river. When years pass
without a word, and a
Birthday card arrives
from the Queen. My
jaw drops, bowled
over, I'm no has been.
.