Waning Cynical
Saturdays at the patisserie,
I sometimes burn my arms, wrists or hands,
balancing hot pie trays and dodging chefs.
New scars overlie old, pink on brown on white.
I'm middle-aged Icarus with singed bat-wings,
in the slow burn of everyday life.
I plan on drowning in dementia,
I enjoy a good melodrama.
poem by Diane Hine
Added by Poetry Lover
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