Author: Ken Jones

I feel old, Lord. Every time I stand up,

My painful back tells me I’m old.

I look into that morning mirror.

I notice my wrinkled brow, and I know, again every day.

I’m not getting old. I’m there.

I saw an old man, walking this morning. 

                Early, it was. Not more than six-thirty, or so,

                I saw an old man, walking. But he did not walk alone.

Alongside him, holding his hand, she walked, too.

TODAY, I HAVE a fantastic opportunity. As I sit at my computer, looking at the blank screen, the cursor blinks benignly and awaits my signal to begin. I can express my ideas with grandiose words and magnanimous articulation. I can write big words on this page, words like “thoroughfare” or “boulevard” or “promenade.”

            Or I can keep it simple and use ‘road.’

On certain days, (not every day, for certain, but on ‘certain’ days,)

                   I find myself missing the Midwest.

Even the humidity would be a welcome visitor to my life, on some mornings, I think.

Most reasonable people believe in God, I think.

      Most sensible people even talk to God,

               (if not frequently, at least on occasion.)

When the daze and dizziness of life’s journey becomes too great,

           When the bewilderment about what’s going on becomes so egregious that men don’t know                                                     which way to turn …

On those days, I think, wise human beings decide to speak to God.

If the walls had ears,

       And if those streets could hear,

                 What fears and tears would they remember about THAT Thursday.