three score and then some, we’ve had our flings
no almond gaze times these, weak attempts at lies
peer out at us from dispassionate washroom eyes
and though we smile at them while straightening ties and things
they grimace back all liver stained and brown.
Outside an accordion plays a lilting tango tune
and smiling waxwork figures hold frozen motions
bend backwards to distant ballroom nights in June
and clasp time’s fingers across scintillating oceans.
So wind up the clockwork, maestro please,
dust the cobwebs off the glass, sound the bell
we want to hear the melodies again, release
the reins of the horses on the carousel.
Play that seventy-eight scratched yet still sublime
let that dance music revolve one more time.