Old Folks Home
I sit alone, my only company
a vague sense that I would like some.
Without people to bounce against
the sharp edge of boundary blurs
and I become a smudge smeared
across other people’s calendars,
doctors and family marking my finish line,
the better to organize their own affairs.
2 thoughts on "Old Folks Home"
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The title and last couple of lines focus the poem, but it’s also universal.
Sometimes we’re the smudger – sometimes the smudgee!