Other than managing
the day's demands
this old man lives
mostly on memories
past loves
imagined conquests
dreams
the landscapes
of his youth
life's poetry
and also prose
the stories he's lived by
half true half false
fictions designed to prop up
the image that he wished
to show the world

Then there are the moments
he'd as soon forget
missteps and mishaps
life's embarassments
the same love note
sent to two girls
who as it happened
knew one another and compared
what they'd received

And there's his work
his struggles with the world
the things he's learned
the years spent
happily or not
meeting the needs
of wives
of children
aging parents
dealings with both friends
and strangers who have touched
and taught him
and those whom he in turn
has touched and taught

All this is now his treasure hoard
his sandbox
filled with a thousand things
to sift through
to enjoy again
in retrospect or else discard
and if there's wisdom
to be shared
to find a way
this is the work
he's eager to complete
before the last sunset
fades to night
and every weight
is lifted from his shoulders