An old man
a WW2 survivor
leaned in and said
It’s not fair
A man needs 2000 years
to live his life
He’s gone now
you made sure of that
transformed into a name and date
on a stone marker
barely even a memory
I’m getting old
my mother whispered at forty-five
I wanted to tell her
don’t be daft
But what did I know?
Not more than the oppressive mirror
you held up for her
I’ve always been old
You embroidered it into my warp and weft
I hid in the simple pattern
hoping to escape your eye
Silly, I know
pretending in vain
that you hadn’t spotted me
You nudged me awake just now
two hours before my alarm
But you’ve been shadowing me
since the day I first remembered
Shears ready
do you measure me in minutes
hours or years?
You exasperate me
with your thieving ways
snatching the life I own
bit by bit
leaving me with a pocketful of anxiety
Haven’t you taken enough?
No, I guess not
not yet
Photo by Johannes Rapprich from Pexels
Tales from the Land Manatee 
Can we truly own our lives, I wonder? Can we own anything?
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Not really. But we like to pretend. Makes us feel better.
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It does, doesn’t it?
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Another great poem, Sean.
Are you back from Britain?
Yes, it feels good to pretend.
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Thank you for the kind words, Basilike.
Pretending keeps the world going around.
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That, and looking for lost luggage. Did you find yours?
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It did eventually turn up. Phew.
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Phew indeed!
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I really like this poem! The idea of time, waiting with “shears” and measuring in minutes, hours, or years is unsettling–very well done!
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Thanks! I kept thinking of various mythologies where a woman with shears decides a person’s life span.
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