untitled] Your wrist is

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Your wrist is used to it, baited with fingertips and the small watch that never opens though your pulse

has an echo, comes from a sea already damaged by moonlight and its embrace as the cry for mother

between the stones still being buried trapped in the dirt they need for darkness hour after hour pressing down on your chest

listening for you among the flowers who say nothing about leaving or their shadows that wave to you.

Simon Perchik

Walking through the door of old age

There is no denying I’m different now. I talk about breezes, To others who don’t notice breezes.

My blazers have given way to scarfs and shawls. Just right for the chill around my rounded shoulders And the soft paunch at my core.

Nature, expecting no kissing left in me, Has sunken my lips inside my mouth Like an apple bitten once then Left drying in the playground trash.

Paradoxically, while I now see small font in a blur, My cursive flows out smaller and tighter. Resembling my mother’s hand. What did she write me then? About breezes?

On a phone message playback, I’m surprised to hear my quivering voice That might need a cough To strengthen and clear. But there’s no cold or pending cough, Only the chronic rasp within a droopy turkey neck.

My loss for names and lapse of fact Slow the volley of my banter. Where I once could slam A solid rapid fire retort, I now pause and only lob for want and reach Of word precision.

Sometimes I offer no reply at all. Impossible to translate The mumbles I hear When your face is turned away And your lips are out of reading range.

A sudden, greedy sweet tooth Lures me to the candy aisle, Dodged since babies shared my cart, And urges me to bake scones

And other soft tea cakes.

I serve them warm On the good china plates In my lovely home. Where I choose to linger most days. Gallivanting having lost its thrill To the contentment of home And the pleasant breeze From the open patio door.

Deborah M Arrin

Deborah M Arrin is a retired business owner who has written poetry for over 50 years.