who am i then? <br />is there nothing left? <br />the splintered leg <br />of the coffee table, <br />the doorknob broken, <br />the place on the edge of the yard <br />where the dog likes to piss? <br />do old men's bodies <br />crumble into the shadows <br />of all the things they've died for? <br />how many plates filled? <br />how many cups poured? <br />how many fires tended <br />against the night? <br />how many hands held? <br />how many dreams buried <br />beneath the tree that stands? <br />how many conversations <br />with pictures on the walls? <br /> <br /> <br /> <br />lonliness breathes, <br />with a stink familiar... <br />the tv drones like gnats <br />flung against the bulb... <br />the world's gone mad, <br />and everything i thought i knew, <br />is buried on the hill! <br />even the name on my shirt has faded, <br />coffee cups stacked in the sink. <br />the hands fumbling with buttons, <br />are both cold, and alone... <br />and the body on the bed, <br />is no body at all. <br />the vine grown into the gutters, <br />rain water falling on pavement cracked!<br /><br />Eric Cockrell<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-anger-of-old-men/
