Talking to Myself

Talking to Myself

Talking to Myself

In the mildew of age
all pavements slope uphill

slow slow
towards an exit.

It’s late and light allows
the darkest shadow to be born of it.

Courage, the ventriloquist bird cries
(a little god he is, censor of language)

remember plain Hardy and dandy Yeats
in their inspired wise pre-dotage.

I, old man, in my new timidity,
think how, profligate, I wasted time

     – those yawning postponements on rainy days,
     those paperhat hours of benign frivolity.

Now Time wastes me and there’s hardly time
to fuss for more vascular speech.

The aspen tree trembles as I do
and there are feathers in the wind.

Quick quick
speak old parrot,
do I not feed you with my life?