But Crumbs

I don't
remember the shift-
the calender
or a moment- sudden,
that it happened.

It was subtle
as dusk
transforming
to darkness,
simple as
a crush
on a cousin
and then
gone again,
or middle age
with no borders
marked clear
you just
look up and
astonished you
are here
like a silly
entrance map
of a mid-west
mall, ignored
by those
experienced
and over-whelming
to the uninitiated.

Like shadows
leaping
and dancing
gray on rain
drizzled days
never fully
flying
free from my
feet steady
marching
on.


My fathers
hand veined
and tanned-
accented a
thousands milk
white scars
visible
only under
harsh illumination
of a vanity
bathroom light-


grips the razor
I have had since
a Fathers Day
a million
tears ago.
The mother
of my children
surprising me then
and them too-
too small to know.


My fathers face
scraped gently
a song

skrrrt
skrrt
skrrt

of coarse
grey whiskers
whisked gently
away

chased down
the drain
by the water
that rinses
my razor that
shaves

the face of my father

looking from
the mirror
at me.

And I cannot
say sure
when it
happened though
it is troubling
as near curdled
milk with a pending
experation date,
my cookies
and yesterdays
are nothing
but crumbs
brushed so
easily from
the lap.

I find the
knowing has
developed slow
as mountains
arching their backs

I am
an old man.

If not lonely,
certainly alone.

An old man certain to die

alone.