Saturday, September 28, 2013

At The End

In the midnight of our days
routines will have
fossilized. Fried eggs will grace
every breakfast plate. I’ll refuse
your daily offer of juice

There will be no more
surprises. Politics
will have rasped away our edges
loss rounded your rigid spine
contentment slowed my steps

borrowed or begotten
will make up for cataracts
Through hearing aids
their shouts become tame gurgles

You will climb ladders
unsteadily, whittling
away my endless honey-do list
and read the newspaper aloud
while I knit

Shuffling between the accumulated
ghosts of long lives
we won’t speak much, but

Papery skin will whisper
of old love when
your hand grasps mine
And we peer blindly
into the darkness

from a prompt at Poets of G+