OLD DAYS, NEW DAYS

OLD DAYS, NEW DAYS

Those old days 
I would sit in my apartment and get drunk 
Listening to Bob Dylan, 
Vinyl bootleg records that cost $20 back then 
Long before YouTube offered them for free 

And I would look down on the street 
And stroke a beard bedraggled, 
Light and dark brown, reddish and golden all through. 

I would think about the woman I loved or thought I loved 
Or wonder about the woman I might be destined to love 

And I would put the electric typewriter on my lap 
And type poem after poem about her, 
Whoever she was that night 

While the keys crisply echoed and clacked. 

Now in the new days 
I sit in my apartment and get drunk 
Surrounded by the specters of those I have abandoned
Or who have abandoned me 
And listen to hours of music at little or no cost 
Admitting that maybe somehow it feels less earned this way. 

I look out at the street,  
Stroking a beard fuller but less florid, 
The white overcoming in patches like crabgrass, 

Thinking about a woman but with less expectation, 
The chains of the specters rattling in my ears  
While I sit at this keyboard punching keys that are silent 

But not silenced.