The Retirement Address Book

Restlessness can be a permanent landlord.

A worn out address book, some pages ripped out

tea stained smudges, scribbles and arrows

ambiguous business cards taped to the back

a fallacy of forever, circle of belonging, a network of warmth and shelter.

Now edited, prudently rewritten…. thinned to 24 pages,

sunbeam lean,

many friends vanished as quickly as a winning streak.

Suddenly this new book makes you feel a little older,

you fondly reminisce of smoky parties which left nothing but the burden of the laughter.

Now time is stretched around a solitary mug of tea,

in the morning you notice the sandpipers on the shore,

the way the mourning doves are the first birds to quiet in the evening.

The old restlessness can sting

stirring up opposing feelings like coarsely chopped ingredients.

Makes you ponder … is your soul buried somewhere in a teenage scrapbook?

Perhaps an office door name plate?

Somewhere …

till once again you corner the courage

and write your name and number on a coffee shop napkin.

Sharon Robson

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