Let’s be concise:
Living
in hospitals
is like
diving
in swimming pools—
the exit can be
problematic.
Sign above urinal:
“Please do not throw
things in urinal.”
I did not see
things in urinal
worth throwing.
Nor would I climb
into the urinal
to throw things.
So why that sign?
Simpler:
“If yous throw stuff
into this here urinal
yous gots to lick it out.”
—even I understand that one.
Photos never lie
except when they must,
with a minimum of mendacity,
tell welting whoppers
about how egregiously old
the old codger has become.
I have studied photos
taken years ago
that make me look
youthful although
I can recall
at the time thinking
how mature that youth looked.
So, how upset was I when,
being told a particular
photo was a good
likeness of me,
was unable to identify
which of the old coots
was I?
Weak eyes
in the morning
whilst before a mirror
can be an advantage:
weak eyes
allow me to believe
my own press releases
to myself.
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It had to be somebody else—
that picture they said was I;
he was old and paunchy,
looked like he should be
chewing a cheroot in a rocker,
cracking wise about the good old days
on the porch out front of his ranch.
He was a weathered old campaigner,
a sitter, past it all; used to his own ideas
deaf to anyone else’s, tired of youth
‘s old discoveries and inventions,
ready to take his Saturday night bath
in the hard tub at the bottom of a deep hole.
Not I.
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