Growing Old in the Fold


threshold of the skyApril showers, how repentant.  As if I eluded February…to stay in such a bogus fight.

How dare my carriage be discovered so lusterless with such spite.

Gregarious women warriors did not sit pantry-side…deliberating yeast for might.

No fireside banter…wronged versus right.

No paragon in which to huddle.

For the many, the cosmopolitan, visibility a squeamish black hole.

Their consumption’s a salty wine from abiding the fold.

Who will douse the sweat from my brow…as I, grow old?

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