Sonnet at Middle Age

At least I look the part; I’ve collected
the furnishings: the draperies, dogwoods,
coffee and cake on Sundays, alongside
the dismay and sense of futility.
Once I went any and everywhere; now
I stay put, ear tuned to the house sounds,
apron pockets agape in a constant question.
Yes, there are brights spots, lit passages,
a flashlight on the cellar stairs; still, some nights
I awake like a child in a strange house.
Everything’s simpler than when I was young,
so how come it’s so harrowing, how come
from a far-off room I half hear the future
purse its thin lips and begin whistling?

Sarah Sloat

If you've any comments on this poem, Sarah Sloat would be pleased to hear from you.