The Age of Autumn

On Thursday, twenty-six,
Autumn arrives with messy
hair showing both the new colour
and the old one. Imagine
the kitchen chair he sat while
his wife, myopic, whistled a silly song
she had been trying to forget
for decades now, and coloured his hair.
The old colour, of rain and of green,
leaves a sporadic trail like the age-proof
required for this gentlemen’s club where
the members will raise their pours
and recite, ‘Do not go gentle into that good night’.

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