Pleasantries: A Poem
Looking ahead…
Pleasures age before
we do. Take sex. That quick spur
dulled to a quaint itch.
Or food. Tasty fuel
becoming, one by one, life’s
too-rich leftovers.
Plush scents, skunk-sharp stinks
— all waning year after year
to nose-wrinkling funk.
Scored on crêpey skin
accidental blaze-marks of
unclipped nails. Old blood.
Hearing-aid averse.
Straining to read the room’s lips
What?… Sorry, I… What?
My eyeglasses need
glasses. Old joke. When did closed-
captions get so small?