Sonnet at Middle Age
At least I look the part; Ive collected
the furnishings: the draperies, dogwoods,
coffee and cake on Sundays, alongside
the dismay and sense of futility.
Once I went any and everywhere; now
I stay put, ear tuned to the house sounds,
apron pockets agape in a constant question.
Yes, there are brights spots, lit passages,
a flashlight on the cellar stairs; still, some nights
I awake like a child in a strange house.
Everythings simpler than when I was young,
so how come its so harrowing, how come
from a far-off room I half hear the future
purse its thin lips and begin whistling?
If you've any comments on
this poem, Sarah
Sloat would be
pleased to hear from you.