Sixty-Seven: Song to Self
ABRAHAM M. DE LA TORRE
When I was six and sixty I did pray
the celebration be enough and say
that while the others afore me had grand
shenanigans I am content with none
but that with which I was at peace like birth
of day to greet my ebbing asthma then
before I could begin to hold my breath
and not release it any more than in.
I did not use to write and poetry
was never in my list of things to be
my miser’s greed loathed books that bored me stiff
too confident that weeping should be hid.
In haste I struggled every inch of growth-
surrounded strangers sought to know the truth
I did make faces to the world at large
whose promises I poked my finger at.
My dreams were scarier than actual angst
for, rid of bane, I twitched until I woke.
My gluttony was such that even lust
took second fiddle to my oyster’s stroke.
I sought no answer to the questioning
that poverty in grief had skinned my kins
confession was as alien as a lie
I chose instead of purging every high.
I thank the thought that hope is not alone
until the empty fact proclaims the feast is done
and take to heart I have the gift to fast
on pittances up till I limp my last.