Leaving

They told me she wept as she left the house
For the very last time, casting a sad eye
Over the floors and stairs that now lay
Empty, devoid of even cardboard boxes

I think she may have felt ancient
Draping fingers over her wrinkles
Shocked at how the years flew
Unchecked by her consciousness

I picture her looking at her husband
No words needed to pass between them
Eventually he says something routinely
Meaningless, just to hide from that moment

I see her walking, slower and heavier
Than her years would merit, almost
Stalling, trying to just delay the
Inevitable departure

Come with me

Drop everything and come with me
Pretend like the rest of your life
Never mattered

It's a hell of a proposition
And I know that you know
I have played my last hand

I know you have propositions
From unforeseen directions
On a daily basis

How can anybody choose
When there is so little time
And so many men

All the People, Oh So Many People

All the people you'll never be
What do they need
On that restless Sunday night
Jet-lagged from weekend excesses
That never freed them from the week

All the old faces you never see
What do they decree
To be life's one defining moment
As feet are dragged slowly up stairs
To reach machine run office floors

When the New Year Comes

When the New Year Comes
Are you ready to let the old one go?
Will all your old troubles
And woes be cleansed by the snow?

Remember lost summers, fading
Into myths, dreams, something or other
Intangible, imprecise, incomplete
As you and your memory get older

Pathetic Progress

There's much too much to be done
For this train to be stalled
By inexplicable tardiness
Or overriding safety concerns

There's much too much to be done
At the termination of this journey
For minor delays, beyond control,
Of impatient passengers

There's much too much to be done
Before the day dies, as it must
But the same can't be said for
Demands that push on

Autumn never calls

Autumn never announces itself
No courtesy call just to say
'I will be there tomorrow'

Suddenly leaves are brown
Brown and dying, strewn
Across indifferent concrete ground

When schoolkids kick through
The debris of the season
To inattentive seats in lessons

When budding scholars stumble
Through freshers week floors
To gawp at dances of seduction

When workers sip in morning
Mists that accompany commutes
That siphon the days away

When retirees recline on
Benches they know will
Soon become icy thrones

We can only ruminate on
Youth once we have
Left it behind

Saturday Morning 1am

Shadows of trees in the park
Empty trains sit on the bridge
The optimism in the dark
Will it remain by morning

The week passed, time again
For a thorough Sunday clean
The grease blots and stains
That grow as the years go

The flow of the water never
Thinks about its direction
The tinkling of piano keys
Never doubts its complexion