faux memoirs of a man who is a footstool

well past my labours
I have truncated my views
I am like youse W.B.
Yeats

an old cucker with a stick
a pratfall on tip
waiting for a cadence

how do I figure in it
at all

I do not figure in it at all
so let my dance bereaved
conjure up many copies
along the main avenues

I rise to my parking structure
the golden circle’s prerogative
and survey my city
blind as a bat

night and cloudy skies
above a very dim outlay of colours
twinkling
and not very
sparkling

Christopher Mulrooney