I can feel myself more than ever
Slipping into death’s body
It waits for me impatiently
Noticeable lapses in memory
Difficulty going downstairs
Tipping when getting out of bed
Asking people to repeat themselves
Being ignored by the arrogant
Young man beside me at supper
And the girl who has eyes only for him
Out the window mountains
Pink blue and gray
And a sky so pure it scares me
On the wall opposite
Where I sit writing poetry
A painting of the same scene
With prairie grass below where
My window does not go
I have been reading poems
By a red-haired woman
Her pain and joy well spent
In a thin volume of thought
Breakfast waits downstairs
I rub the gob of skin in my neck
A good poet once told me
A book should end with a click