ragged claws

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(poetry diary 28) Last night I kept repeating T.S. Eliot’s lines

I should have been a pair of ragged claws

Scuttling across the floors of silent seas
over and over in my dreams.  I’m not sure why my subconscious had me do that, but when I re-read “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock” this morning I thought maybe my subconscious was trying to tell me that, like Prufrock, I’m going through a mid-life crises.  Then again, I’m not sure my subconscious is smart enough to make that association–I think it might have just liked the sound of “ragged claws.”
ragged claws ragged claws ragged claws….
Good sound.
Anyway, the other day I posted a kind-of-depressing poem about middle-age.  Today I post a happier one.  At least it’s happier at the end, where it’s got a little old man looking happily at his wife:

The Future

by Wesley McNair

On the afternoon talk shows of America
the guests have suffered life’s sorrows
long enough. All they require now
is the opportunity for closure,
to put the whole thing behind them

Read rest of poem at The Writer’s Almanac

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