Old Things

 

There was a palpable change
In the air.  I sneezed as I
Looked about, sneezed again.
Someone had been down
Here not so long ago
Stirring up old things, dust
And rusty knobs, canes

And cans and cans of
Old food past the written
Code.  I was old before
It started.  What difference
Could it possibly make now?
One loses his wife or dies
And leaves her bereft

If one after all this still
Remembers.  Many don’t,
And its enough for them
If someone takes them food;
Anything else, poetry,
Philosophy is lost.  They
Still hum though and sing.

I shined a light on the stacks
Of boxes, books mostly.  One
Can’t read them all again. The
Faint cry of a siren sounds:
Someone’s wife is going to
ER; someone’s husband is
Following in an old Jeep.

Night is like that:
The business of sick
And dying, the waiting
That one must wait
Because there is no place
Else to be.  Hang onto her
Or you’ll wear her blood

And be left with nothing
That means anything: the
Glasses, hats, sweaters,
Dresses, Socks and coats. 
None of those will fit
You.  She’ll take everything
When she goes.  The phone

Rings in the hall.  Someone
Asks you if you’ll approve
A procedure you won’t
Understand and make you
Complicit if she dies.  You
May not notice the lizard
Outside your window watching.