Rusty Bones

My bones are slightly rusty,

Like the Tin Man on day two of his long wait.

Every day starts with a creaking rise from the bed.
Muscles flex and bones groan.
Gradually, my own oils flow to fill the worn gaps.

The body works,

The mind forgets,

(intentional forgetting, I’m sure)

I move down the hill of the day until,

At the bottom,

I fall back into my waiting bed
To accrete a new layer of rust.

Perambulations

Bridge over river.

Dark water under dark sky.

Street lamps at either end,

A hazed moon above

Offer silver light and dancing shadows

As dark trees shift slowly in the faintest breeze.

 

A woman walks across,

Black skin in a long white dress.

Matronly hips sway easily,

The dress hem sweeps ten inches above the concrete,

The slow dance of here to there

On every early summer night

From now to far back then.

 

The air soft and warm as a kiss.

 

 

Bridge over river.

 

Dark water under a dark sky.