Sunday, May 4, 2014


at two forty five
in the morning
is a wondrous thing.
You're alone,
but being alone
just makes sense
as the razor glides
easily; the motion
fifty years in the
crafting; the strokes
gentle and assured.

A beautiful thing
to grow old
when so much life
has been lived
through the broken centuries
of empires & loves
and the battles
of the common
and commonplace.

There's a steady tick
of rain against
the streaked windows
lit by lampposts.
A Mile's ballad
is filtered
through his Harmon's mute.
My hazel eyes sparkle
as I race from legs
& thighs, fingers
& nails touching me,
clawing me sometimes
bringing as much laughter
as pain
like toothaches
& abstractions.

A beautiful thing
to grow old
& still care
how you appear
to the female;
how you're the cock's crow
amid a mostly bland
and unappetizing fare.

If I could choose
I would have shot
pool like Luther
or Willie or Fats
& hustled for a living,
instead I wrote
and am happy enough
with that.
Now there's a softness
to that; an easy truce
with myself, an understanding
of workings and a balance
we know nothing of.

A beautiful thing
to grow old
& still get
letters from those
who responded
to words arranged
on a page. They believe
you have something to offer--
& maybe you have.

I lie down,
my face smooth
as a baby,
and allow thoughts
to come
& go.
I will not murder
these thoughts
tonight, but let them
co-exist side by side
drifting lazily
into each other
adjusting the picture
as I adjust my pillows
& my arms & my legs
& let time & sleep
have their say.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2014

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