too old for verse,

too old for love,

too old for dreams,

too old for drama.

at twenty-four I met

a poet, published, older,

now an ash inside a tomb.

shared his verse in class,

gathered his disciples in the Irish bar

with beer, we paid attention, we craved, believed.

he bellowed, “as you recover, as you get well,

you will grow up and give up verse.”

“words of poets die,” he said, “and so will you.”

I recall those days, yet here I persist in

being old, in love, not well, words still invade.

not yet recovered, not well, still seeing songs,

still confused by poets and in awe of a dated

wordsmith, who convinced me I was young

without any songs to harmonize or murmur

like a pesky insect buzzing in my mind.