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The walk at dusk
poetry [ ]

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by [Al_Zolynas ]

2005-03-16  |     |  Submited by Lory Cristea

The hour of repose.
The steaks and potatoes, the chicken
noodle soups, the pizzas
and cold glasses of milks
quietly turning into my neighbors.

The quiet streets.
The Fords and Chevys, the Buicks
and v.w.'s nuzzling the curbs
and winding down-like the suddenly
abandoned toys of children.
They wind down.
The ping of metal cooling,
the winding down.

The retirement home.
The golden light spilling
out of the aquarium windows
of the retirement home.
A golden light for the golden years.
The retiring, the golden retiring.

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