What is it about growing old? Sometimes like autumn
Ascending toward its final glory,
The star of October’s last picture show.
Begins with a gentle Rembrandt glow
Then erupts like ketchup and mustard
Splattered on buns, paint-box colors so hot
They shoot light off
To make themselves feel comfortable.
Stalled magnificence up there day after day
Until punctual as bad luck a storm sweeps in,
Trees shed their tattered gowns
Like nightclub strippers and the sky’s confetti,
A sight that will open your pores
And make your shoulder blades ache for wings.
But it’s not over yet:
Like soldiers in a defeated army
Left standing after their last salute
A few stubborn leaves crinkled brown
As powder burns
Refuse to come down
Because they can’t decide
Whether or not they’re still alive
And if so what for?
Then lose their grip on even this
And scuttle away on their rusty tips,
Turn epileptic in air
And with a lazy twirl spin silently down
Crazy slow
Without a breeze to blow them,
Cashed in by gravity and finally run to ground.
“This is my life,” you tell yourself,
“What old age is all about,
A drop of blood on a slide of glass
And death like a stone in my shoe.”
Think about it. Take, if you like, all night
In the silence before the siren arrives
Because there will be mornings
When waking up in the same old pajamas
Just isn’t enough----and nights that arrive
Like a coincidence instead of a sure thing.
***
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