From I Used To Be Old
I am squirreled away in the nests of my brain
In seeds of experience to get me through
A winter of discontent.
I am exhibits in the museum of my mind
In random back rooms cluttered with
Former front-of-the-house treasures.
I am a library of plays and short stories
Not produced or published for many years,
A notebook of early chapters in an epic novel
Still being written.
I am a river, far from its source,
A current of continuous flow from
Refreshing springs and streams of
I am a personal file,
A one-man human resource
With invaluable experience in me.