A LOWELL SONNET

An unaccustomed ripeness in the wood; move but an inch and moldy splinters

fall in sawdust from the aluminum-paint wall,

Once loud and fresh, now aged to weathered wood.

Squalls of the seagulls' exaggerated outcry, dimmed out by fog . . . Peace, peace.

All day the words hid rusty fish-hooks. Now, heart's-ease and wormwood,

we rest from all discussion, drinking, smoking,

pills for high blood, three pairs of glasses --soaking

in the sweat of our hard-earned supremacy,

offering a child our leathery love. We're fifty,

and free! Young, tottering on the dizzying brink

of discretion once, we wanted nothing, but to be old, do nothing, type and think.

This file is automatically generated by a robot program, so reader's discretion is required.