The Thrill Is Gone

I am ashamed you knew me young,
before sundry winters drew lines from my eyes
like the spider-web cracks of a stickball mishap,
and the mad dashing legs of puppy-love glee
dragged like hip-bound bags of sand
and gravel, braced against a flood.
Now, as dusks bring the hidden Eros
of loathsome nickel-cigar ashes
concealed in empty cans of beans,
a dirge recalls the scent and sound
of shameful winds of whispered pity
wafting cinnamon of unbaked pies
and clanking din of unfinished work,
as B. B. King pours like tepid spilled milk
through the ashen fog-soup ether,
reminding me the thrill is gone.