Is this age: days akin to waste
rack up efficacy, are so

deft at being gone
I never think to believe

they might have been engraved;
through the open window

comes a wiffle ball
like a hieroglyph,

a handshake is the signal
for the guests to begin

forgetting my name;
there is cold onyx

in my glass to keep the whiskey whole;
I can feel my hair is public

but my scalp is personal;
the slide is a y-axis 

where children mock the body’s
decline, all evening creak and glee

will there be another ping
to announce coming events

the way the host’s oven timer
alerts the fray to chow;

a squirt of gritty soap to cut
the hands’ activity

they remember neither
first bones nor berry stains;

I am late to the table
because I cannot count

the purple martins in their home,
just black holes;

is this worth a name:
walls trod

by paintings of buffalo
while the chandelier’s ochre

sprays encouragement;
watch, the dish is hot;

rosemary that’s for memory
the fifth taste, for dark