A Growing Old Poem

A growing old poem
that’ll grow as I olden
& end when I can’t
 
In less than two weeks
I’ll be 79, not
fit any more for much
 
except monitor
mouse & keyboard, making my
bed, meals, & show’ring

 

What is a breath? An
inhale? An exhale? The gap
between life & death

 

She is here
I am there
She’s outside, calling to the magpie family she fosters
I’m inside, in a far country on my newsfeed
& thanks to her calls I now hear the birds chirping
& see sunlight on leaves & air
& now she’s there
with her art in her studio
& I am here

 

Hot tea, I do love
hot tea. & a vape of dope
for a new session?
 
Session – from Latin
sedere, to sit. I’m sitting.
Still here. No newsfeed,
 
the music of hai-
ku still in my head, a beat
to the wind outdoors
 
long pauses with naught
particular in mind, &
nothing needs to come
 

OK, that’s enough.
There are causes I embrace
as I can, online
 

&/but before that
let’s publish these first bursts of
this growing old pome

 

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