what is it me that part forgotten
or jangling at the pocket bottom?

I thought I saw myself become a
bit greyer up a long time ago,not now

The minutes went by & I aged &
the lighter sparks of my dashing

splashed & dimmed ,became once
& not here ‘Happy birthday, son’

Of course I recognise O These are
my fingers & so woolf—so fifteen

so thirty, so prone to something
dirty but now scrapping over letters

that won’t fall in line to character
love songs that I can’t pen alone.