Nothing is as sad as the realization of gravity
With the draining of a bath so calming, sea.
I sometimes forget I am a poet, self-declared,
And rhyme in mind that which is unsaid
In kind, hoping my past works still speak
Though they are but words on page left meek.
So, verily, I trust my rust to wonder of what
I have done before, leaving today to someone else
Whose actions say I am right lost in life, as would
A fool be if he, not knowing, were the fool.
Shakespeare comes easily because I cannot go
Above their model, always imitating and rarely
Leaving those shallow verses, deep by glance, behind.
I drew a bath for first time in decade+five, hoping
To loosen back tight since aught-nine, but
Failed to hear wife in shower, 45, and so
Sat, warm, hoping water was more than gravity’s pawn.