Thistles and dimes



When I’m old 

I’ll sharpen rose stems 

with a childish blunted blade,

pepper my feet with 

gold-speckled black thorns, 

and leave a wet-worn stalk

bleeding 



Then when I walk 

senile into your room I can claim 

dime-sized wounds on my feet: 

punctures of blood with 

white-rounded sore halos



Perhaps then you’ll hold me 

with that young-clasping love 

you’ve already forgotten to 

give me 



At least I’ll never 

stop buying you roses

© John M. Kehoe