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Old Possum, at this last, eleventh hour

I am---upon these sign-waves---coming back

(an old man, crippled, chair-ridden, and dour)

to take up, once more, what has gone too slack;

that which I had, through my default, betrayed

(having become too fearful and afraid,

having become too steeped in the pretension

to arrogant, belittling condescension---

Karen and Linda said so, in aught four,

Monday, May tenth that year, recalled once more).

But this is mere autobiography.

And what I have launched forth, as Poetry,

will (I hope) be more than just the sum of me,

with some small share of spirituality.

Starward

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