Same old new

today the prime of repetition

again the trumpets
the high pulled socks
the speeches wrinkled, straining

but missing out here is
the holy again-ness of a door gently closed
the worn wooden spoon in the oatmeal pot
the moon

me,
I am old on my newness
that stubborn groping at greener grasses
that fresh hunger whipping to a frenzy
and still
I am new in my oldness
sprouting wily hairs every so often
my heart beating not quite as fast 

when the landlord benignly reprimands me