With age the world slowly
fades to a room with a bed and in that place
you may learn why
to forget, to be confused is a gift
as lonely drunks know

My youthful mind is dressed
in a room full of inclination
where I build my models and draw my lines
of curving convalescent preference

Before it is lost I will fold
my old mind in delapitated tent-fashion
rolled in tightly and I will open it once for memory
and, losing my strength, it will be stuffed in a nylon sack
by rough other's hands

Don't visit me in my old folks home
where you won't know whether to ask me how I do