Growing Old Pangs

By Antonio Rodrigues

We walk in this graveyard of memories,

Mists swirling around stark silent trees,

And lament the place where music no longer played,

Or steak and onions ceased their incessant sizzle.

Empty stoic chairs around sullen marble-topped tables,

A restaurant, coffee, sandwiches, old love

or, maybe, five pm omelettes.

The walls reek of creamy pastry and meaty puffs,

deep sighs in the family room.

Single-screen cinema, current and advance booking,

chicken mayo rolls.

Shoreline recedes in the distance,

skyline, a smoky haze,

a dimming of the light or aging eyes,

as the wrecking crew called progress

knocks down Easter Island edifices

of lost youth and buried childhood,

and you want to shout Stop! Stop!

But lack iron will because

the end of the road is a one-way bottomless abyss!

You can only wait for the credits (or debits) to roll!

By Antonio Rodrigues