Naught-Naught-Two
© 2010 Olan L. Smith
I forget I forgot
Or at least I think I thought.
Perhaps it is a matter of purging my cranium
Of extra cobwebs and delirium.
It should be written or said
Someplace
That everything becomes fragile
When you reach a certain age,
Now, instead of agile
Every tendon
Rips, tears and wears.
If I had only known what I should of knew
I probably would not have braced
As my car hit that dear doe deer
On that fateful January day
In naught-naught-two.
YOU ARE READING
Older Poems from the Pen of Olan L. Smith
PoetryThis collection is a gathering of most of my older poems, both published and unpublished, making it easier to find my poetry.
