From the Top

It’s not hard, anymore,
In the prosperous world,
To wander in somewhere

Where almost everyone
Is old—white hair, lined skin,
Odd shapes, difficult gaits.

One thing for your own life
To be past its middle,
But to sit in a room

At a service station,
A diner, a lobby,
Hospital, DMV,

And think, who among these
Will still be drawing breath
In ten years? You’re looking

At that weeping willow
You once watched turning brown
On a green lawn in town.