Poem – For an Old Lover

For an Old Lover

I can see your gaze on the horizon, steady,
not like mine as I drive alone
glancing at everything
                      that measures
how far I am from home.

The number on the trip odometer is a fraction,
nominal in the permanent measurement, scant
but significant, vital to the equation’s precision,
it itself a testament,
                      as you know

The eyes’ weariness serves warning for the midnight blues,
         but music waits in the cold morning
when I’m trembling close to you.

“And these are the days for roses, poetry and prose…


-O'Connell