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Just 70, he has begun—at last—
To get his due: two books; a modest prize;
The first reviews (now fortune and men’s eyes).
He likes to joke that they’ve come way too fast,
But, hard of hearing, nods like Aged P.
And beams assent to all who disagree.
Now come, as well, those tremors in the black
Of night, the shock that frights him from his bed,
Only to wake in sweat. His pen keeps track,
Though, metaphor-by-stunning-metaphor.
Not one mean bone for what still lies ahead.
He prays, of course, as one under attack,
But we’re the ones who hear the deep heart’s core,
And pray, in turn, "O God, please hold him back."
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