Adamant

Cream biscuits. Butter.
A rusting toaster. Late afternoon.

4.15 pm, the light slants
into a crowded room
smelling of sleeping books.
Steam touches
a trembling forearm. White
hair

felt by the ceiling fan. Tobaccco.
An overused pipe. A fluttering flame.
Within you, seventy years
of old bad habits. A dead son,
an estranged daughter
bits and pieces of friends
some finished and some almost there
like biscuits. Breaking.
Vanishing carefully. Apart from that
Sixty years
of unfinished poetry
waiting to see an end

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