Philip Miller

 

 

That Old Feeling

 

He plays old songs all day.
Father’s deep in his cups,
over and over the same tune
from some lost yesterday
he wants to bring back up.

He fills and refills his cup,
turns on the same damned tune—
 “That Old Feeling”—
he wants to bring back up,
with evening falling soon.

 

 

Almost Autumn

I rest in a hammock slung
between two obliging trees.
The wind sifts through the leaves.
Gold pieces of shattered sun

lie on the shadowy lawn.
Above me a single bird,
one I’ve never heard,
pours out a chilly song,

a little out of tune,
coming just in time,
another,  odd,  off-rhyme,
and then the rising moon.