How Smokes the Smolder
By Todd Boss
at neck, at
shoulder, that
stokes a man
as he grows
older. Nothing
rages, nothing
fumes. No one
races through
the rooms,
alarmed. How
casually he's
armed. How
gradually arises
what surprises
in his mirrors.
Unawares, as
fall runs colder,
pulls he only
slightly tighter
his good wool
sweater, thinner
than ever now
at elbow,
at shoulder.
Source: Poetry (July/August 2007)