Soren, the mistake is mine--not yours

belated old me, young-ish
& suffering not unlike the rest
of us

they do not gather around
the columns & rows I’ve
made

just a lucky (for me) few who
knowing where words come from
greet me

dishonestly but not unkind
so kind (you’re too kind)
true

but we are not truly torn
we keep secrets but they don’t
tear

and my lips don’t sing
only my fingertips hunt
& peck

scratch a stray hair
twist a chin beard
wait

impatiently for the right
word but never find le mot
juste

what strange lips I have
what lips my lips have
missed

what suffering songs
unsung, forever lost on silent
lip or ears