Rocking Chair

I will never sit in the rocking chair
in my declining years, just rocking there,
watching all the livers living their lives;
the rain comes down, and then the puddle dries;
forward and backwards, crunching the sand
instead of working poems with my hand,
or celebrating Shakespeare with my mind,
not resigning myself to clergymen’s lies.
I will keep on thinking beyond the walls
that close like caskets and hug like claws.
The real boy stiffens like canopy branches
as blue-fairy light studies the brackets
a siren chant that pulls at the order—
restive, I fret the stage between borders.