At Seventy …

At seventy I won’t see your face from up close and my fingers

will hurt holding this pen and I will read steamy romance

without shame and will have done away with bras and worries

about the beginnings of wrinkles. I will tell strangers I love them

and old acquaintances I’ve never been that fond of them. I’ll grow zinnias

for my friends’ tombs and for the birds. I’ll ride my scooter

to the market in Provence and meditate with my bare ass on the hot tiles of Arles’ rooftops

next to the pigeons. I’ll hitchhike

to Gibraltar and back with nothing

to lose. Nothing.

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