Monday, February 08, 2016

Intentions, a poem


Despite my worst intentions
I mellow as I grow older.
You might even like me
before I'm done. And here

I was hoping to mature
into a white-haired curmudgeon,
my only friends the pigeons
I visited each day,

pockets full of bread.
Maybe someone else
will expect my visits,
yet. It could happen.

Stephen Brooke ©2016

A slender idea made into a not very serious poem.

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