September 27, 2009

Michael Pelc

Old Men

Old men are made of old dreams.
And I have grown old
reaching out for dreams,
those glimmering bits of frost
that elude my grasp
by melting at my touch.


We clink our glasses
and paint proper smiles
upon our lips,
just the way our mothers taught us,
while long-forgotten lies
that once played
at being the truth
turn themselves into poems.

But they rhyme too well
to sound sincere,
and so I let them go.
And with them, you.


Michael Pelc lives on the west coast of Florida with his wife and a scaredy cat that few others have ever seen. His poetry has appeared in Hudson View Poetry Digest and The Peppertree Literary Magazine.

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