70

The only thing that’s strange
is realizing I’ve arrived alive.
Nothing’s changed to more weird make.

Water still runs through my fingers,
scooped that turns them prunier,
a longer time ago when plump palms held so full.

My eyes do somewhat strain
harder to see the golden spinning hands.
And if I creak, it’s only more because
I make out closer glinting eyes,
the nodding of a shriveled head
mirroring me around 140.

Time speaks comfort for me now,
those old familiar words.