i’m ninety-one today.

Joni and bob

 

came to see me
in the home

 

where they insist i

must be happy.

 

the kids didn’t come

though.
 
joni thought they might

throw up and ruin

 

their pretty little christmas,

my skin’s stretched thin,
 
my eyes shrunken back
into my skull. they

 

were both so anxious
to leave — must be

 

a big party tonight —

or maybe
 
i’m just feeling sorry

for myself again.

 

who knows? (who cares?)

because
 
now i’m alone again —
with my thoughts again.

 

beside my bed, i still

have the pictures

 

you took of me just

before you died
 
and the mount eden

chardonnay you

 

asked me to save for a
very special day.

 

under my pillow i’ve

hidden the book of

 

poems you wrote for me,
for madeline giboin.
 
i can’t read them any

more, my eyes.

 

but that’s all right —
they’re my litany.
 
my book of common

prayer.
 
and one shouldn’t need

eyes for those.

 

(hey, you’re never too

old to rock ‘n’ roll!)

 

i’m ninety-one today.

but i still sing

 

spem in alium as they

wheel me into the

 

dayroom to watch

reruns of

 

“dougie howser.” and

when night comes,
 
the moon will lie her

frail head beside my

 

pillow and watch my

fingers playing bach—
 
on the blue chambray
sheets by my side.