Anything but old

Another show. Stream of conscious in the city.

Sometimes I stop and listen.
Really listen.
I feel down.
There's pain there.

I laugh it off, considered inconsequential.
thought I buried it deep, when I set my pen aside.
Whose concerns rise above the meek?

Not mine.

Even though I secretly care.
Punched and blindsided I'm picked up by friends
and acquaintances, people I hardly know at all.
I'm hugged from a glance and I'm gently reminded of the scope that people have.
It's nice and disgustingly evil.

Considerate.

Consider it a final blow below the belt.
You didn't know we each have a personal hell to rise from, ashes-a heap to step aside, along. Humming words in present tense with each day passed

Yes I'm old enough to be out this late, bus driver, my years are in my eyes.
I can't pass further west, sail across into the east, I have no wind or oars to fell.
Just take my goddamn money
I have miles left to go.

Author's Note

I never use periods.

Reviews

[A.G.]

I really loved this poem Jean-Pierre Garcia (:
well written and personal.