by Charles Joseph Albert
Will we miss their dirty tissues when they’re gone?
Their goaty smell? The way they natter on?
How do other grey-haired orphans grapple
with their loss as they pour from that chapel
with eyes, though wet, that aren’t really red.
One thing’s certain; no one saves the bed
pan or I.V. bags as a memento;–
We find it easy letting those things go.
And just because the last years’ final draught
is tainted by such residue, such dregs,
we can’t believe these final sips had spoiled
all joys their early years begot.
Look beyond the now—decrepit, soiled—
when they strode on more stately legs.