Prematurely

Prematurely

Alas, poor George is dead, prematurely

the paper said, at eighty-six.

How long does it take a man

to grow up?  Is there hope

for me?  Have I yet to reach

my prime at not quite eighty-two?

Will I have to ripen, maybe rot a little,

before it’s safe to fall from the tree?

Maybe I should buy a bolo tie,

go square-dancing tomorrow night,

allemande left and right, bow

to my corner lady, dos-y-dos.  

I hope I don’t fall flat in my cowboy

boots.  A sad sight for my grandchildren

to remember as they sashay the rest

of their lives a right and left grand home.

                              —Donnell Hunter

                                        13 February 2012