by Deborah Doolittle
That it should come to this
opposite of bliss. This more than
mellow recognizance of things past
their prime, outmoded, out
of date, out of style, fashion, service,
and long past usefulness. Left sitting,
standing, or rolled up onto one side,
our collective sighs are not from
contentment. Once we were the stuff
from which dreams were made of.
Our day dreams and our nightmares
share the same theme.
So, this is retirement:
dust motes floating in uncertain
slants of light, acquiring hour by hour
a slow-encrusted patina to being worn
or thin or dull. Whatever happened
to seasoned, veteran? The timeless treasure?
The classic? The collectible? Cobwebs
are made this way and somehow senility
sets in. Waking or sleeping, we live the same
endless scene. Too bad the shortening
of our days only lengthens our nights.
Deborah H. Doolittle has lived in lots of different places but now calls North Carolina home. She has an MA in Women’s Studies and an MFA in Creative Writing and teaches at Coastal Carolina Community College. She is the author of No Crazy Notions, That Echo, and Floribunda. Some of her poems have recently appeared (or will soon appear) in Albatross, Eclectica, Hubbub, Chiron Review, Magnolia Review, Main Street Rag, and Steam Ticket. She shares a home with her husband, three house cats, and a backyard full of birds.