POETS OF MY TIME
Poets of my time,
I come to you my hat in hand
I, supplicant, I offer my regrets.
Forgive any offense I’ve caused.
I did not mean to rub you wrong.
My addiction has been to the declarative,
pronouncements, smidgeons of advice
and even the audacity of a prophesy or two.
It is time to make my peace.
The clock is winding down.
The engine is beginning to chug and wheeze.
I don’t climb hills as before.
I need the push of new friends—
like the old Swedish woman in Stockholm
during my grand 1960 tour of Europe
who put both hands on my long butt
and pushed me on a crowded bus.
