This summer I've hosted in my Cape Cod bed-and-breakfast numerous couples and solo travelers of all ages and from all walks of life. As the tourist season ends, I consider these people who have enriched me, and I contemplate my role as a widower of a fifty-year marriage and as an aging man.
I need to poem right now.
But what to poem when day is darkening
and simplest breathing comes heaving
and moving me is moving weight
and seventy is for the sleek and strong?
What to poem?
Rhyming lines of loves recalled?
Illicit scents rising from unfamiliar sheets?
Tongues and tastes and lidded eyes and
salty, scalding skin as hungry as mine?
But wait. Wait. Life’s still mine to make,
not just to commemorate.
I have yet within me to choose before I pass
another path to break, to take and, before I die,
(Image: My photo of Head of the Meadow, Cape Cod)