Categories
identity poetry

My old man pose

I ate last night’s dinner

for breakfast, wild mushrooms

in bone broth. I sat by myself

in the nook chewing,

contemplating the day.

It passed without report.

In the middle of the night

the moon made the fog

look like a stony broth,

like we were all just

floating in the soup

with our legs dangling,

no floor.

I got back into bed,

let out a hearty yawn

and thought, I must look

like my old man now:

“old age.”

By pinklightsabre

Bill Pearse publishes memoir, travel journals, poetry and prose, and lives in the Pacific Northwest.

9 replies on “My old man pose”

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