An Old Dog Reads Keats
I read Keats’ biography.
Muse naps.
We’re both “old dogs”,
nagged with illnesses.
He naps as the 5:20 express train
clatters past,
trundling towards Gilroy
while I finish the last chapter—
Keats dying
in Severn’s arms,
whispering, “Thank god
it has come…”
Unlike the great poet
I’ve known lovers.
Yet I have lived alone
with my dog Muse for years,
youth a sunny Italy
I’ll never visit again.
Decades ago I screwed up
my marriage. My wife
walked away,
our life together
like a tornado tossed
trailer park,
nothing in the end worth
salvaging. That shit
was mostly my fault.
I’d give anything
for a second chance
with someone.
Where’s the wisdom gained
that was supposed
to ease my old age?
Where’s the “Beauty
is truth” moment
in my life?
Did Keats think about
“Ode on a Grecian Urn”
in his last days?
No, he regretted
never sleeping
with Fanny!
His biggest mistake!
Maybe my life
isn’t so different
from Keats!
Maybe few are!
Muse, in my old age
where my feelings—
to be honest—
bruise as easily
as my skin
I find I want
the same things
I did as a young dog–
as Keats did
at the end—
to be stroked, loved,
forgiven for the messes
I’ve left behind.
