DEAR OLD MR. BELVEDERE

I grow old … I grow old…
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.
TS Eliot- The Love Song of J Alfred Prufrock

Dear Old Mr. Belvedere

I called him Mister Belvedere
he wore his pant legs up
and when the sun came near the hills
he’d fill his coffee cup

iambic meter through his pen
ah, reverie came due
his brow the smell of fish and fries
and powdered chicken too.

He wrote of aspens, birch and wood
and how he’d fit between
the poplars with their songs in place
the languid shades of green.

How strange, his ashes found their way
to seeds that spread foreshore
and like a tired old jetty swells,
he lines the river’s floor.

K. Vibbert