poem

 In the Conservatory with a CandlestickEvery moment is a lit matchFlickering in a dark roomSome gray February morningMenaced by strange winter thunder.Getting older is running out of matchesBurning each one down To the absolute nubSearing thumb and forefinger.Every iteration of old selfIs huddled somewhere in a quietEnglish conservatory Waiting to get murdered.All you hear is the sound of matches strikingAgainst strips of powdered glass Rapid at first and then spaced out In ever wider intervalsLike popcorn left too long in the microwave.It dusks and then gets darker and darkerAs everyone begins to ration what ’s left.3/11/24

Source: Buckeye Surgeon - March 11, 2024 Category: Surgery Authors: Jeffrey Parks MD FACS Source Type: blogs