The Youth of Old Bones
You sit in your studio, surrounded
by half-finished paintings
and the tools you need to work.
There is music playing. Lou Reed
and his choir of street girls in the background
as you sit and write in your journal.
Across from your worktable
is the only painting you have made of her,
all curves and red fabric.
You smile, remembering waking,
remembering the hours of conversation
the night before,
falling in love with her again,
wondering how it is she makes your old bones
feel so young.
About this poem.
It’s a love poem. I don’t think I will ever get over the miracle of her in my life.
I hope not.