Head bent over desk
pen poised –
he starts a new page in his diary.
Takes a sip of amber nectar
as outside the window
streets lamps flicker
spring alive.
He was young … once,
full of radical ideals.
A connoisseur of rhythm
but he’d played a different drum –
had more than his share
of torrid, wild affairs,
fallen in and out of love
at the drop of a bandanna.
Too old for all that now
if you believe what they say.
Never fancied settling down –
not with a woman anyway.
Born before his time
he always maintained.
These days
his hands shake
his back aches
time, exclusively his own
yet too tired to write tonight.
Each day recounted
since he was ten
and that was way back when.
Too bushed to think –
pours himself another drink,
as outside the window
street lamps fade
then die.
Head slumped over desk.
How fast time flies.
Now his hands don’t shake
and his back doesn’t ache.
Come morning,
the diary tells it all.
End of story.
