Viejitos make me sick
With their acrid fetor
And those cold and clammy hands that cling to life,
As though it were some precious gift,
Rather than an enduring
Fact.
My belly howls
When I hear the soft
Abated call
For warmth
and for attention,
When recollection
Forgets itself
In the mind's final
Descension.
When I recall
The ways in which
the old
Were once the young,
I smile,
With teeth out,
And a glossy pair
Of speckled pearls,
Whose melancholy
Glistens.