Cogs slip
words flit away like mice
when you turn the light on
age becomes a dart you throw
at the general vicinity of the board
after last month’s fall another year
slipped by, no longer the youngster
of 84, my sail is set into the long tooth
of octogenarianism (is that a word),
my sister’s neighbor Dr. Hue
has become a knitted friend
his losses are mountains, mine valleys,
we love each other in ways he would
never put in words, what a blessing
in my accursed exile in this accursed
so called sunshine state
but this entry is not about hate
but the lovely love of my masseuse 

Iris Iris the light of my eye
slightly older than my great granddaughter 
Penelope (who seems jealous).
When  my face crashed on Dr. Hue’s 
cobble stones he prescribed twice
weekly sessions with Iris
her fingers are angels who
fly slowly up and down my body
landing at each stop with the force
of utter delight, their presence
stiff then merely strong then 
a warm melt like heaven
down through my muscles & bones
into my soul (after all these years
i now know I have one)