“Growing Old in a World That Wants You to Believe You’re Already Dead” by Vladimir Swirynsky

I am playing cards, the free lunch swallowed
in small clumps like an Emily Dickinson poem.
We welcome senior discounts and what we
wear is what we wear. Once a week we climb
into mini buses to gather provisions and
search the shelves in vain for a better life.

We are not afraid of our faces stepping out
into the world like a blue vase, the bones the
luggage of scars shown off like spring
flowers. We know the uncertain future
belongs to the young, those with ambition.

It's supernatural but our common sense has
saved us many times and we always check off the
box marked other. We think of beauty as in
kindness, the frail hands shuffling the cards,
that smile from a woman who could of listened
to dad and got married, but instead
graced the Broadway theaters.

We have our bottles of pills, the dark spots that
consume the flesh. We stay out of the rain, carry on
love affairs because we know the footpath well. We
don't open the door for the revenue boys, don't
believe anyone who says, "We just want to help."