Old

Old is where we watch.

Voyeurs at our own keyhole.

All we see is half a nipple,

One white pubic hair.

Old is where we sit

Partitioning our days into toilets and rests,

Shunning wood or moulded plastic

For blow-up heaven and plush velour.

Old is where we dream.

Sleep won’t allow it.

An alliance of firsts

Love, sex, youth and now loss.

Old is where we wait in-line

Joining those who nod slowly.

Retired bees with nothing to do

Honeyed tears running down our cheeks

And across our lips.

Old is where we remember.

Rewinding life’s colour,

Back through black and white photos

Tracing sepia smiles in hope

Of some kind Genie’s intervention.

Old is where we moan.

The glass is empty now.

An air-dried spider

Lies on an inch of dust

So, we blow him away

With all the puff we’ve saved up

From not blowing out a thousand glorious candles.