Andrew Sanford

Growing Old

Puddles splash worn-out tires
The tired engine ticks to a halt
Once white sneakers scrape over muddy asphalt
They kick themselves off at the door
Sweat soaked socks muffle dragging feet
Ghosting through the dark
Quiet, like a dead dog’s bark
Thin pale hands slide the old rocking chair
From its corner of despair
Pulling off the ancient ball cap
Combing back the missing hair
Wrinkled eyes stare at the reflection in the whiskey glass
Till the man looking back is made of younger brass

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