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Old Person Poem in Two Parts




my mother asleep

in her hot

nursing home


I sit

like a three-day airport delay



she's not dying—

it's not a vigil—

no one relieves me


she is 95, she is dying


I can't—


long enough to be—

patient, to be an ant

on the last peony




the very old mostly sleep

the half-old kill time

the young dash to a brewery


when I was young

I smoked pot all day

it takes a wheelchair to get my thoughts to the table

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