by Ellen Dukes

I am an old man now. I am the chair in the room
Where I am sure I will cut my soul from me.
I am an old man now. I know comfort, grainy as sugar
in my blanket.  The granules become my skin
and  wear trenches
where sweat can form rivers
And the faulty dam of my downy hair knows no roots.
 
I am an old man now.
My dog grows flowers next to the porch,
flowers that have never tasted water from me.
And I have never truly held fear until now;
A fear that the bed of my own flowers
 will surely grow all too well.
 
I am an old man now.
I eat my age with fork and spoon.
I don’t need the knife anymore.
My tongue is thick with it, but my spit slows
 And my throat, my throat
is an infant’s fist.
 
Being old is asking for thirds
of a burnt and flakey meal
from a friend whose
smile is like broken bones.
Handing me the next plate,
Their hands shake same as mine.
 
Now that I am old I think to myself:
I am a boat in the sky. The sky at night.
Now that I am old, I will steer amongst
That funeral of light. And there is everything not to hear.
And now that I am old, I am slow to know these
Knots in my laces. My eyes and my heart tangled long before my hands ever did.