Setting The Table

every year the bees will come
to the flowers, and the
fruit will grow and drop
and it all
had to mean something
maybe,
or maybe it never did

maybe
it never did

Bukowski didn’t groan
into his aged repose
he eased like a man
that had earned some measure
of quiet
He, with wife and cats
in comfort
as Ginsberg had Peter
the fire smolders
to a low flame
the invincibility

slumbers

and what will I say,
or be said of me in my
twilight?

for now
anger at certainty,

futility and youth.

© Emerys Watchel, 2016 All rights reserved.

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