No pleasure in meat,
dairy, sugar, white flour,
nor in novels, military history,
science fiction, or organized religion.
He’s not without reverence—
Cecil Taylor, Allen Ginsberg,
glacial erratics. He curses
when he loses traction, skins his knee.
“Age,” he tells the bathroom
mirror, “is a state of mind. That
Scott Nearing built a house
when he was seventy, stone by stone.”
Sex too—those years his life
depended on it. Small cabin,
double bed, her brown skin
in that last square of sun.
Cindy Snow teaches and coordinates writing and language tutors at GCC. She holds an MFA in Poetry, and her writing has been published in The Massachusetts Review and elsewhere and has been nominated for a Pushcart. Slate Roof published her chapbook Small Ceremonies. She enjoys singing, dancing, and hiking.