I began to be old when you gave me your back

And walked away with brisk step to the first of many flights

Away from me.

 

Fifteen and a half.

Fifteen and a half.

I was a funny fifteen - and a half

When entered - briskly.

 

Last year, exiting,

You prophesied my Process:

 

Old,

Sick,

Senile,

Dead.

 

And I am being processed:

 

Next year, I’ll be three times “funny”.

This Summer, the inflammation of my heart touched a tendon.

Now I sometimes forget why I’m living

And sometimes I’m not.

 

I no longer pray for your presence.

I do not wish you to witness.

It would make me self-conscious.


 

                                                                                                   -   Jeffrey Eisenmesser, 1988