Senior Community

I wonder the line

these towed forever,

now gather together

in club house halls.

Clamoring in slow mo

to calendar events

with intense interest

they form a line

dancing’s the hit

four times a month.

Poker two,

and crafts only one.

School yard thrills

in blue/grey curls,

skin worn

like oversized clothes.

Smiles denture bright.

Boney hands clasp.

Fragile is the word

they carry in hip

pockets with fear

of the final scene.

Alone and gasping

is the way it comes.

Old and Wise

If I live ten more years it will be a surprise.

If I live twenty more I just don’t know.

If I live another thirty I’d have to surmise

we live the majority of life old and wise

but if that’s true please tell me why

we still fall victim to so many lies.

The Slow Death

A slow death

we fear the most.

The drawn-out ordeal

where pain is the host.

Sucking up memories

unto itself,

clearing every corridor

and every last shelf.

Ending it ourselves

is considered a sin.

Confirming who rules

we’re reminded again.

these poems inspired by Dylan's  "Not Dark Yet"