THERE WILL BE SOME CHANGES MADE
A change in me—the way I walk and stumble—
the way I talk and mumble.
Purple flowers of cosmos sprout on my spoon.
I chew slowly on food before I can swallow.
My bones all creak even when I sleep.
Who will be a pal, if I no longer smile?
I’m always cold even when no winds blow.
Father Time—
what do you have in mind?
Isn’t there a better road to keep me warm
other than incineration or leaving me searching
for a hot molten rock underground?