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”

Leave a comment!

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.