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

Grandchildren

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+