Brokerage Poem by jackilton peachum

Brokerage



BROKERAGE


An old man, half- seeing,
half-hearing:
my hand moves, catches the edge of something,

glass perhaps, or a keepsake
-- the treasure tumbles, shatters--
then my crude curse, the picking-up of shards,

and a helpless rage, staring ahead into dimming years,
a time of things falling,
stiff fingers touching, unable to hold to the present!

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