What Old Men Talk About When They Talk to Themselves
A little jewel of a poem with surprising facets.
Risking a hard fall
with every bath, I dole them
out like miser’s bread
First fall: woozy slip.
Second: bones intact.
Third? Not on my (Apple) watch!
No windowless white
tiled room can outdark the night
but that’s how it feels
sitting in my fumes
waiting for a too tightly
coiled gut to let go
Unwelcome recall:
white sand grains trickling through
a pinched-neck timer
Bound to analog
flesh I count my blessings on
stiffening digits.
