Sixty-One by Doug Anderson

                      Catfish is Mr. Death, sneaking up on my Monster High Doll. :-)

SIXTY-ONE

By Doug Anderson

Fifty was poignant, heavy pear 

departs the tree and the poem 

a sigh between branch and mulch. 

But no more. Another decade, 

I’m all song and scruff, 

the mind’s hot wire threading joint to joint. 

I’ll tell you straight out what I think, 

no sweetener. Nor has Aphrodite left me 

collapsed in a stairwell 

and don’t you father-flirt me, girl. 

This morning the world unbelts her robe, 

rose fleshed and randy. 

I like the rats that skitter 

under the subway’s hot rails.   

The little black dog 

who’s afraid of no one, 

not even the dope dealer’s pitbulls.   

Montaigne said sickness 

is God’s way of weaning us from life 

but I don’t think yet. I like the way 

soul clings to gristle like a newspaper 

wrapped around a light pole in a storm. 

Death’s a street away 

walking parallel and at my pace. He gets a nod.

Doug Anderson, “Sixty One” from Cry Wolf. Copyright © 2008 by Doug Anderson.