right now i remember the old

from times I've

watched them bend over

to smell a rose,

fall straightaway into

the flower bed.

White haired men

who drove full throttle

toward a mailbox,

running it right over . . .

wishing, whistling,

sending a postcard to

another long lost

friend—(rolling around

looking for oxygen).

A remote woman

from 1912 tells me maybe

she hasn't felt

quite right this year . . .

handing the last

of her belongings

to the skeleton of a

flea-infested bellboy.