And Calendar Years Pass
Tonight I glimpsed you in your old age. Why a man's voice deepens as he moves past his prime into his factorial self I'll never understand; my voice will thin and stretch as I become round and full with daughters, rich blood. Even so, your unkempt elder-self, humming a verse like a Degas painting, passed through the door stridently, as if commanding me: Distill these thoughts into words. Like this dark stranger you will be untrained and coercive, an unintentional muse, your notes insistent as they descend from your sharp tenor to the bass I do not yet know but already love; you too will pass through the door into the dim, unremarkable streets.
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Comments
Anyway it's how his song sounded to me as he walked by, all French and dancing girls.
i heartily disagree with the other commenter. i quite liked the degas-shout-out as i could hear exactly what you meant.