The young woman looks at me with contempt
because I am old and close to death and no one
not even the elderly, wants to be reminded of death.

The old reck of death, they shake and leak and fall asleep.
They stumble and fumble and things fall from their hands.
They shuffle and mumble and can’t hear clearly when spoken to.

They’re wrinkled and spotted and full of odd odors.
They’re grey and run down, thin-haired and cold.
They’re either invisible or complaining of something minor.

The mole hills they make into mountains make them
exasperating, aggravating, grating, frustrating
I could go on…

Gone are the “moments of glad grace,” beauty is a thing lost
to the past and out of their dried pruned mouths full of soft
rotting teeth come truths the young do not what to know.