Wyatt Underwood

passion’s flames

they rush together

passionate mouth-to-mouth

bodies tightly twined

hands prowl backs

people nearby clear throats

some look away

a few tap their feet

the couple are oblivious

hearts in flames

a world of their own

immoderation

I control the temperature in my room

closing or opening the window by just so much

running the little space heater if I must

and think wryly now and then I have controlled

the temperature of my living similarly

cooling myself down when I heard me rage

warming myself up a bit when I felt my own frost

and shake my head, now that it is too late

whatever was I thinking?  be more moderate?

is it not a poet's job to live immoderately?

love passionately if not wisely?

rage against injustice, unkindness, disdain?

Dylan Thomas thought so, so did Lord Byron

who even died trying to free Greece from Turkey

but not til after he swam the Hellespont

and racked up so much debt he had to flee

despite having the income of a baron

I'm pretty sure I'm not going to swim any strait

nor train troops for a revolution

and I suppose riding a Harley for twenty years

shows some immoderation, but damn I wish...

I'm not quite sure what, something about love and rage

as I sit here in my reclining chair and listen

to rock songs from the sixties and jazz from Thelonius

maybe I'll open the window a little wider and turn the heater up

terminal punctuation

today I saw an old man in the mirror

stooped almost into a question mark

sad eyes, thin white hair

and almost had to laugh

so not the image I expect

me when I was eighteen

full of courage and optimism

and more ignorance than I imagined

so much to learn, so much to find out

and sure I was so prepared

ah, life!  here I am, sixty-four years older

a little wary, not quite pessimistic,

and damn near as ignorant

no wonder my spine reflects the question mark!