He survives the years and faces
departed in early breezes;
there are few now who remember him as a child.
Tears stain everyone.
His skin is smoothed. Fingers once busy
warm in the sun. His eyes once of youth and feet
born of Mercury, rest willingly.
He sleeps in parts. Lightly at first and then moving
about, pulling at sheets and blankets as his arms wrestle the
darkness.
He awakens discouraged, wishing to have passed.
He taps his foot on the floor, hearing the sound of alive.
He carefully stands, walks to the kitchen
to make coffee.
Roger Singer 