We live and breathe inside our gunnysack.
A fusion lamp illuminates our days.
It hides at night behind a paper moon.
Plants grow in our rich loam. Sometimes we’re happy.
A lifetime of denial leads downhill.
Our young at heart live like they were immortal.
They look away when we are eating dirt.

I sing of birds, remembering how they looked.
I might as well be whistling. Memories mix me
a toxic cocktail topped up with regret.
We need palliative care. Caretakers turn their backs.
They turn their minds, pretending they are good,
into echo chambers. They hear what they shout.
On the verge of morning, diving boards collapse.