Old Pals

Time is a shove in the back

When you least expect it

Forcing you to stumble forward

Or race relentlessly

Toward that obsessive thing

That gets kicked just out of reach

With each lumbering step.

You rarely sense its presence

Except for the tedious ticking

Of the clocks that mark

The lines in our faces

As we queue up to pay respects

To another fallen comrade,

One of the few

Who could still recall

The first fall

From that unexpected push.