Content to be as some imagine me--those who look as they pass
And wonder how I came to be here. They never ask.
Suburban Buddha, sipping sweet tea, the cat curled
Beside me, the paper beside her, headlines hurled
By the newsboy on the bicycle this morning, as fast
As I am still. Ignore that jealous tick behind my mask.
I once rode quickly, too; a stitch of memory, now purled.
Her minivan arrives, parks parallel,
She alights with the smile of 45 years;
It may be she really is happy.
She approaches, asks if I'm well.
She won't understand simply sitting here,
Busy at nothing, sometimes exhausts me.
—Martin A. Bartels
—Martin A. Bartels
I am definitely an amateur when it comes to the more formal poetry structures. This is my first attempt at a sonnet. It was inspired by a walk near my home when I observed a kind, elderly gentleman sitting on his front porch.
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