Personal Hour in the City

Quiet and still;
I stand on a city block
and feel wafts of air
from the flight of city owls
on my hair;  they are too swift to see
they move in half-seconds.
Them dog fish of the suburban sea.

I am taking a personal hour
to get reacquainted with the sky,
the guise of aging,
and yet another solitary moment passing me by.
An appointment I never made with Father Time.

All too familiar; yet every night is new—
In the silence I can hear my own snide laugh
at what I’ve done and what I anticipate to do.

Advertisement