The Auld Enemy (last of four short poems)

It's not so much that we
have long memories
as that it is still
happening to us.

Age - (third of four short poems)

Conjuring old young faces
                    out of the air,
Knowing every inch of places
                    no longer there.

Poet in a Hurry

I am a poet in a hurry,
impatient to disgorge
my torrents
before they shall be damned
by the stilting
of the brain's dead cells;

furiously engaged
lest insiduous senility
shall staunch my streams;
enraged
by atrophy's encroach
upon the channel's purity.

Verse is my emetic,
the enema prescribed
to precede parturition,
and, in defiance of
the last prostatic twitch,
my aphrodisiac.