a reflection (on an old man)

maybe this is what hemingway felt
as early morning summer sun filtered

in through half open windows admitting
just the slightest whisper of a breeze

while tiny motes of dust shimmered
and danced to a timeless unsung tune

a few final fleeting moments before
the inevitable end awaiting us all

(one way or another) standing naked
and alone the old oaken floorboards

hard beneath his feet and face to face
with the dawning recognition that our

manufactured glories fade just as surely
as any others and best remembered days

appear now more myth than memory
yet still not worth a damn anyhow.