When you find me, here,
try to imagine me whole:
52 year-old meat, hairy,
leaning on my last leg,
grizzly, unbearable;
a spectacled sight. Behold
before you the aftermath
of a half-century of breath;
half a million hours, wasted,
spent like small change
on small changes. These days,
if you seek me here, here
you will find me, such as I am:
crutched and unbalanced, blinking,
a teetering relic, nakedly unearthed,
recently given to fits, recently,
when exposed to sunlight, stunned.
Ron. Lavalette is primarily a poet living in Vermont’s Northeast Kingdom, land of the fur-bearing lake trout and the bilingual stop sign. He has been widely published, both online and in print. A reasonable sample of his published work can be found at EGGS OVER TOKYO. Ron. blogs at: SCRAMBLED, NOT FRIED .
Your One Phone Call 
You are but callow youth! Good poem that doesn’t flatter you!
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You are describing me a little too well. *grimace*
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I hate to say I relate to this in a “what’s it all about, Alfie” way.
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Oh, now that was meant for the bottomless poem.
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