Weight
Like rings
of a tree, my waist is a measure
of my life, which, as anyone can see,
has proved a generous, if too solicitous Mom.
In many ways, I’ve been well fed.
Now some take half and half
in their coffee. I take cream. I haven’t wallowed
in sensuous pleasure, mind you— ripe
as I am. My weight is a willing fate,
and the sweet padding
of amorous memories
has kept me warm
on many a winter night, though I must admit
the nostalgic load my old heart lugs
may wear it out.
Clover plumps
for market, friend, but what’s more thrilling
than a lifelong field
of worker bees reeling
like drunks
in the wind?
Ken Anderson (Atlanta) has two poetry books: The Intense Lover (Star Books 1995) and Permanent Gardens (Seabolt Press 1972). Recent publications include Café Review, Hole in the Head, London Grip, Lotus-eater, and Orbis. Currently, he is looking for a publisher for a book of personal poems entitled A Sweet Oblivious Antidote.
