We're in it now. Walkers and wipes from here till the end. People will say "How wonderful they take care of each other." People will say "They have each other." Smiles will barely mask pity as I become your good deed. I don't think I'll care about good wishes. I'll be grateful for you, I hope, in-between bouts of awareness. You'll love me until I die, and then love me more until you smile for the time I was once whole – when there was no walker, no wipes – when we thought death was the worst, some far-off place, some mirage.
We thought we'd escape –
took long walks across the bridge
and ate food, fun food, hamburgers.
I took stairs two and three at a time,
and you attracted guys in the showers,
just washing yourself you attracted life.
Jealous old men shot proverbs:
"Enjoy it while your can."
"Things that don't go wrong before
fifty...do after. Beware!"
Pity crossed our lips but we stood sure
age was someone else's war,
someone else's ward,
the cost of ignorance.
Choice.
Never bad luck.
Never true.
Now everything we do is timed.
Weighed. Purposed.
My body isn't mine anymore
though I placate it with spinach
and cardio and porn.
He's tending toward home,
breaking me into the grave
slowly, surely,
ready to lay down
as I conjure stairs
taken two or three at a time
and showers, those showers,
filled with beauty,
mine for a few minutes more.
*
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And if you like poems, click here.
Greg Beckman 