I won't wither and scorn
Nor kindle and break
This crinkle smile, my rare currency
I practice now so I know what to do
You're welcome here
Those not buried, those younger than me, those yet to be
born, those who still can.
I may reminisce but make no mistake.
The blood coursing through these veins is current
I'll mix with you, serve spanking fresh smart with my brand
new food
1963 wasn't the goddamned depression after all
You'll come back again on your own accord
My face won't shoo you away with cracks and furrows made
bruised and bullied from years of grousing
Soft white linen is what I want
Oft laundered, smoothed by hand, gentle creases, parchment
or birch
Look at the texture! You'll exclaim
Or maybe that will be me.
My mornings will look like this.
I'll wake up and rise.
Tricking 20 lost years back into whatever my limbs are now
The task of being upright achieved I make my way out the
door
Somebody will hold it open, or I'll wait
Thank you. I'll say
To you, to all, to life, to no one in particular.
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