Twice I have started down
and twice I have remembered, stopped
by watchmen in the night.
A kind of surreptitious speech dogged each encounter,
a penchant for noise, a buzzing, then, a tick-tock,
and an ultimate vestigal formal cry - cock-a-doodle-doo -
and more I can no longer remember.
Would that I were not so willing,
What of the remaining days,
a fester, unremarkable sore,
capitulating enumerating age spots,
vulnerable to winter's cold,
testy as wind and drifting snow.
What madness there is
remains in summer's mulishness,
it's uninspired cacophonous calls.